Sing For Absolution
by PhoenixTailAndHolly
Summary: He had spent four years on the road, travelling the Great Outdoors. Now, he's back in Britain. Will his family welcome him with open arms, or has too much time passed? And what about his friends? Are they still there, and will they forgive his unannounced departure?
1. Starlight

The cold wind of winter whipped around him, carrying a fine mist of salty water with it. The air was heavy with its scent. Most of the sky was cloudless, and the stars were clearly visible, this far off any major city.

He had wandered around the globe, without purpose, without direction. Taken where the winds, the sun and the stars led him, he had seen every continent, visited incredible places, and met wonderful people. He owned nothing but the clothes on his body, the wand in his pocket, the guitar on his back, and the few items in the small backpack slung around his shoulder. He didn't care for anything else, didn't need anything else. So long as there was food in his mouth, and a soft bed to sleep in once or twice a month, he didn't really care where he was. But now, he was back. Back in Brittain. Back home.

When he'd first gone out, it had felt like he was escaping. Escaping the pressures of his new-found fame, escaping the confines of what his world had turned into. Shaking hands with a random pedestrian, because they had recognised him from the papers, enchanting his house, because he might be attacked in his sleep. Slowly, what had seemed marvellous at first, had become opressive; irritatingly so. The thought of leaving hadn't conciously formed until a year after the Fall, but he knew he'd been playing with it subcounciously quite a long time before that.

When it had registered, the thought wouldn't go away. He spent his nights alone in his shabby apartment. At first, he was dreaming about what to do, out alone, later, he began planning. He included no-one in those plans; not his best friends, nor his family. This would be a solitary undertaking. A quest, not for the greater good, not for the wizarding community, but for him. Just for him. And that had been enough.

He stepped forward. No sense in staying there, rooted to the ground, with a cold nebula washing over him. The grass had grown out too again. He smiled to himself. _Some things never change._

He had quit his job, even though his boss offered him a raise if he'd stay. He'd owled his landlord his two-month notice. The git later claimed he'd never received the letter, and that he still owed him for two months of rent. _Bastard. _It was a good thing he'd left that same day. He wasn't quite sure what he'd do to his landlord if that particular debate hadn't been cut short by an unexpected visit of his mother. Wasn't the last piece of work I'd come across since then.

He had left Brittain by ferry, though he knew that was just plain silly. He could have just apparated anywhere after passing the exam. Most of his relatives and all of his friends thought he was still unlicenced, but he knew he'd need one if he was planning to go abroad. The licence turned out to be quite useful, especially when his money was low and he needed to travel. Leaving by ferry was mostly to throw the press and anyone trying to follow him off his tracks. He'd decided he'd travel by muggle means; that would make tracking him a lot more difficult.

He had wanted to be alone. His tramping around the world had to be a solitary undertaking, a quest he would share with no-one. This was something he wanted to experience alone, something private. Even now, talking about it with strangers felt uneasy, indecent. It was like sharing a long-held secret; part relief, part distrust. But he had felt trapped. Like a bird in a cage, he had felt as if his world was so small; so preset. He was one of the heros, lauded at the corner of every street, greeted by people he'd never met. He was supposed to greet them back, supposed to listen to their stories of pain and bitterness with the ears of a great sage; listening to the words within the words. But he had felt a fraud. He cared little for strangers. He cared little about their pain, their hardships. He cared for his friends, for his family. Little else. Perhaps that was his flaw. Perhaps he should have cared; listened and wept with each heart-rending story. But he couldn't. He tried, but he couldn't.

His friends had noticed. Realized what was happening to him as he started going out less, started wearing sunglasses, or baseball caps to hide his face. They had asked him about it, and though he told them much, he never truly told them how much it bothered him. How much every story reminded him of his own losses, of his own pain. He didn't quite know it then either. He knew he saw his brother in his mind's eye often during those stories, but the connection hadn't been made yet. That realization came much later, when he'd been gone for more than two years.

He'd reached the door. The light had been on in the living room, so he knew someone was home. He knocked. He wondered how they would react. It had been nearly four years...

Though the quest had been solitary, he'd never minded some company. He had spent quite a few weeks with a bloke from Germany. That guy had been insane.  
Together, they had crossed Germany by foot, spending two weeks in Berlin. It had been mid-summer then, and Berlin had gone by in a rush of visiting parties in abandoned warehouses. _Muggles do know how to party!_

In reterospect, he knew he had been a bit unfair to muggles. He'd always thought them a bit off, but life without magic was quite difficult. He'd been so used to having magic to solve every little inconvenience, that travelling with muggles had been quite a revelation. He obviously couldn't perform magic to make a fire, or even bring his parents's tent, and had learned the hard way that life as a muggle was mostly hindered by a hundred little things that irritated you on a day-by-day basis. It explained why they so vehemently sought out new inventions, and leaned on electricity so heavily.

Living like a muggles wasn't so bad as he'd imagined it to be. There were quite a lot of things the muggle world was actually ahead of the wizarding world. Computers made instant communication possible, where wizards were still using hand-written papers. ATM machines allowed you to withdraw money, where wizards were still bound to Gringotts. Music was something else entirely. He loved the muggle music, especially that of Muse. He guessed the muggles were behind most in transportation. They so easily accepted that travelling from A to B took time, depending mostly on distance. For wizards, going from A to B could be instantaneous. Muggles literally spent half their lives waiting. Waiting in the bus, waiting for the traffic lights, waiting for the bridge to lower.

He had occasionally travelled with wizards. He'd met one on the train from Moscow to Beijing. It had been an old warlock, travelling home with his muggle wife. The antique had been dying to get some news from the magical community, having spent two weeks in his stepmother's village, cut off from the world. They had spent some time playing chess, when the old man began about a game named Go. the warlock had explained the rules quickly, and by the end of the ride, he had won his first match.  
'You have a gift for these games,' he'd been told, as the wizard gifted him the board and stones, 'perhaps some day we'll meet again. I'd like to play against you again.'

The light in the hallway had been turned on. He heard the clicks of several locks being opened, and felt the removal of a protective charm. Several were still in place. The door opened only by the small fraction the golden chain that was fixed to it allowed. Blue eyes were visible between the gap, a flash of red above.  
'Your lawn needs mowing,' he said coolly, pointing back with his thumb.

After four years, he had suddenly grown tired of travelling. He'd found out everyone had a history. Everyone was brilliant in something, and everyone had regrets. It didn't matter if you were wizard, muggle, or something else completely. Everyone carried around a secret. Everyone had done something they were proud of. Some were happy to be alive, others were happy travelling. Sometimes, they were abused in some way. Sometimes, they were running away from past mistakes. Most were just following their dreams.

He'd seen the world. He'd seen things. Things that had left markings on his soul. He'd visited New York in september 2001, aiding the local wizards in any way he could in the fallout of those horrid attacks. He'd searched with the rescue teams on ground zero, till hunger, thirst and exhaustion made going on impossible. His respect for those muggles was unlimited. They'd gone on and on, ignoring the weariness, the pain, and the horror in search for those few survivors. He'd seen the rubble; the torn-off limbs among them. Whatever horrors he had fought in his youth were nothing compared to that grisley scene.

Oddly enough, the muggles soon filed it away in historybooks. He'd seen them do this before, in Iepers, Belgium. A war of trenches. Dying men, in puddles of mud, waiting for the kiss of death. The wizard running the museum had shown him a eyewitness account through a charm. Muggles were right calling it 'a hell on earth'. The same had happened in Auschwich, an extermination camp. _How on earth did muggles come up with these things?_

He'd decided to travel home. He took his time, savoring his last days tramping through the great outdoors. The eastern states of America, the cruise to Plymoth, which he payed by working as a crewmember.

'So my wife told me. Well,' the voice on the other side of the door said, slightly amused, 'the mower is in the shed. Knock yourself out.'  
He took out his wand. He could taste the tension in the air as he did so. He turned around. His back to the door, he studied the field, then flicked his wrist. Each blade of grass was snapped in half. Another whip moved the broken parts together into a ball, which was neatly deposited in a bin.  
'Better?' he asked.

Travelling had its benefits. He met more than a dozen wizards over the course of a year, and always, there would be some exchange of knowledge. Sometimes, it was a simple spell to do something trivial, like dry out wet firewood, other times, he'd spent weeks training to master the spell. This had been a bit of a combination of both. It took quite a while to master this little trick. It made an impression.

He turned back around. The eyes peering out of the crack were staring at the grass. He saw the outline of a mouth, opening twice before speaking.  
'Thanks!' it said after a while, 'You just saved me two hours of work. Care to tell me your name, stranger?'  
He grinned. His appearance had changed a bit, he guessed.

Four years of tramping across fields and roads had left its marks. His face was weathered from exposure to the sun. He'd kept his hair millimetered, which was now just as long as the beard ringing his face. His body had become sinewy, but never gaunt. The smile that had wavered from it the days before his departure was back, though it had wizened somewhat since then.

'I haven't been gone that long, brother,' he said, 'that you've forgotten my name?'  
The door closed, and the last chain was removed. He felt the removal of the last protective charms. It was done in haste.  
'Who'z there, Bill?' he heard someone in the living room ask. the sound of several chairs scraping over wood reached him as the door opened. They must've had guests, he guessed.  
'My brother,' Bill said absently, blinking his eyes, 'It's my brother.'  
'Which one?' a familiar voice said. _Ah_, he thought, _him. I'd hoped to meet him soon.  
_He couldn't deny wanting his friends and family during those years on the road. He'd missed them dearly. He'd missed his best friend, to speak of the wonders he'd seen. He had missed him beside him when he walked in the solitary emptiness of the mongolian highlands. He'd missed her too. His friend and secret love. There had been others on the road. Quite a few actually, but none like her. None that made him feel so connected, so... himself. She was a large part of why he'd returned. For a moment, he'd hoped her to be at Shell Cottage too, but he assumed her to have moved on. Perhaps he'd talk to her some day soon too.

'Ron.' Bill said, as if stating a simple fact. He made it sound as if he'd been gone out for a pack of sigarettes.  
'We were just starting dinner,' Bill said, 'care to join?'  
'Would I be a Weasley if I didn't?'  
Bill smiled, the hard angles of his ruined face contorting and flexing. He leapt forward and envelloped him in a hug that nearly cracked his ribs. Ron returned it with equal enthusiasm. Fleur was the first to approach the hallway, her wand out. Bill let go and turned around. 'It's him,' he said. Fleur eyed him warily. 'I'm sure,' he added.

She dropped her wand and shot forward, stopping right in front of him. She reached out a hand and put it gingerly on his chest, as if checking to see if he was really there.  
'You look healthy,' she said after taking hold of Bill's hand, 'and happy.'  
Ron felt his ears go red. Fleur's charm had intensified with age, and her compliments felt very nice.  
'We're having pancakes for dinner,' she said, 'I believe your favourites were with syrup?'  
Ron smiled guiltily. 'What's with this family's facination with food?'  
His eyes fell on the the two figures now at the end of the hall, and his smile faltered. Harry looked like he'd been bludgered by a troll, Ginny was ashen-faced, making her flaming red hair stand out even more. He took a hesitant step forward, effectively entering the small cottage.  
'R-Ron?' Harry said, still very much under shock, 'Is that really you?'  
Ginny floated to him like a ghost, her flowery perfume filling the air. She looked straight into his eyes.

'Ow!' he said, after she had punched him in the arm.  
'That's for leaving without saying goodbye, you jerk!' she snapped, with a baleful stare. Then, she surged forward too, putting her head against his chest. 'And this,' she whispered, 'is for returning.'  
Harry looked amused. He reached out with his right hand. Ron's right hand found it immediately, his fingers wrapping around Harry's thumb in that comfortable position they'd never forgotten. Their eyes locked, and Ron knew his best friend was happy to see him again, and to share their last four years.  
'Is she -'  
'Yes,' Harry replied to the question he'd probably been expecting, 'She's in the living room, with Teddy.' He glanced back in, perhaps checking to see if she was still there, 'she seems a bit... thunderstruck.'  
'It has been a while, I guess,' Ron replied, as he untangled Ginny from himself. It took a considerable amount of strength to move his feet, which was funny, since he'd been doing that for nearly four years without interruption. He set down the guitar case and backpack at the coat hanger, then moved forward the last few steps. He thought back at the several years he'd been walking, and how they led them right back here, to Shell Cottage, with his family and his best friend, to the love of his life.

She was sitting at the far end of the table, a five-year-old Teddy sitting next to her. She hadn't changed a bit. Her hair was still as untamed as before, her eyes perhaps a bit older and wiser. Ginny moved passed him, flowing through the room and stopping beside Teddy. Hermione stood up and walked forward. She looked incredulous. She closed the distance as if in a dream. She was a step away from being in arms reach when Ron took a step back.  
'You're not going to pummel me again, right?'  
She nearly jumped forward and wrapped her arms around him. She was shaking. He couldn't see her eyes, hidden between his body and her wild hair, but he thought she was crying. Ginny and Harry glanced away, giving them as much privacy as possible.  
'We didn't know where you were,' Harry said after some time, 'The postcards you sent were the only way of telling if you were still alive.'  
Ron suddenly felt a surge of guilt coming up. He'd sent quite a few in the beginning, but that number had slowly declined over time. He thought they wouldn't really be interested in where he'd been. He'd sent the last card when he was in New york, now three months ago. But he was back now._ Back home._


	2. Bliss

Dining together was a unique experience. Harry was positively beaming with joy about the return of his brother-in-arms. Ginny and Bill were firing questions at him. He wasn't able to finish an answer before the next had been be asked.  
'You visited Borobudur?' Ginny exclaimed. Her voice had been slowly rising through dinner, and was now an unusually high pitch, 'Is it true that wizards are taught a spell on the top level?'  
'Yes,' Ron said, remembering the old master on the top level fondly, 'though I still have to find a use for that particular spell. I spent the night on the summit. The view is unbelievable. You can never imagine how many stars are visible on a cloudless night.'  
'When were you there?', Fleur asked. Where Bill and Ginny were interested in the sights he'd seen, and the magic he'd come across, she was more interested in the trip itself. She'd asked him about practical things, like how he'd traveled, or how he'd payed for everything.  
'Second year on the road. I spent the winter around the equator, since I had no real snow gear with me.'  
'Where did you go next?' Harry asked. It was one of the few questions he'd asked since dinner had started. Ron turned his head and made eye contact. He could feel a grin forming on his face while he saw an identical one on Harry's.  
'Bali,' he replied, 'couldn't very well visit Indonesia without making a stop in the number one party island now, could I?'

The evening slowly proceeded. Ron was enjoying himself, recounting his travels and catching up with the events in Britain. He'd heard that the ministry was reforming. It seemed like Shacklebolt was an excellent minister, quickly reforming poorly functioning departments and promoting hard-working ministry officials. Everyone's faith in the ministry seemed to have improved. The war had effectively destroyed the people's trust in the ministry of magic, and under Kingsley, that trust was now largely restored.  
'After that,' he said, resuming his recounting of the events in Japan, 'I decided I'd seen enough of Tokyo and I moved into the mainland. Spent a few weeks in a monastery.'  
'You were in a monastery?' Ginny asked, an incredulous look on her face, 'You?'  
'For about five weeks,' Ron replied, 'but the diet of half a handful of rice and some beans didn't really suit me. I did enjoy myself though. Played a lot of Go there.'  
'Aren't monasteries supposed to teach you about yourself?' Harry asked, 'You make it sound like a spa.'  
Everyone laughed at that. Bill laughed most, and had spent the entire evening with a wide grin on his face. Ron had the feeling Bill was very happy he'd returned.  
'I did learn a lot. It was a muggle monastery, and those are very strict. Did a bit of soul-searching there. Found out a lot about muggles too.'  
'Like what?' Harry asked with unfeigned interest.  
'Like how they can achieve things so close to the border of magic with self-control and the mind. The old masters spent most of their time meditating, and when they did, I swear I could feel.. something. Perhaps that's why one of them contacted me at the end. Told me he saw me being different from the rest, and that there was little left for me to learn here.'

Ron looked around the room. He saw Fleur and Bill, leaning against each other. They were holding hands underneath the table. Fleur seemed to be studying her husband's face, while he was still focused single-mindedly on Ron. Ginny and Harry weren't touching, but exchanged glances to each other nearly every minute. The contact never lasted more that a second, but it told them everything they were thinking about none the less. It was endearing, though admittedly, a little mushy.  
'How are mum and dad?' he asked.  
'Fine,' Bill said, 'it took a while for them to get used to an empty house, but one of us visits nearly every day, so they are never alone.'  
'Mum's a lot less protective of us nowadays,' Ginny interjected, 'I guess there's something to thank the war for.'  
Each of the Weasleys grinned at this. _Leave it to mum to need a war to change her habits._

'I noticed a guitar on your back,' Bill said after cleaning the last of the desert from the table, 'you play?'  
'Yes, though I'm not really brilliant or anything.'  
'Care to give a demonstration?' he asked hopefully.  
'Sure.' Ron stood up from the table and walked out of the room. He opened the guitar case and extracted one of his most treasured possessions. The guitar was unremarkable. Not of special brand, and bought for a discount, Ron loved it dearly. There were a lot of good memories attached to that instrument.  
'I'll need to tune it,' he said carrying it in, 'hang on.'  
'You took lessons?' Ginny asked.  
'No,' he said, strumming one of the strings. The tune was deadly. He'd replaced the original plastic strings with unicorn tailhairs. Those produced much rounder sounds, but also tended to get out of tune much earlier. 'I just practiced a lot. Traveled with a Dutchman that played. He helped me get started. After that, it sort of grew on me.'  
After a few more plucks on the strings, Ron guessed it was back in tune. He struck a few chords. Fleur involuntarily cringed, they were Celestina Warbeck's. An evil grin flashed on his face, and soon everyone was laughing.

With the laughter going on, Ron picked a song. One of his favorites. He deftly struck the first notes, softly replacing the sound of laughter in the room with the sounds of the guitar. The notes were sweet and high, traveling up and down the tone ladder with ease. Ron closed his eyes. He'd played this song so often, he didn't need to see his hands or the guitar anymore, and like always, that single image came to his mind's eye. The one image he always saw playing this song.

_Everything about you is how I'd wanna be  
Your freedom comes naturally  
Everything about you resonates happiness  
Now I won't settle for less_

Give me all the peace and joy in your mind

Everything about you pains my envying  
Your soul can't hate anything  
Everything about you is so easy to love  
They're watching you from above

Give me all the peace and joy in your mind  
I want the peace and joy in your mind  
Give me the peace and joy in your mind

Everything about you resonates happiness  
Now I won't settle for less

Give me all the peace and joy in your mind  
I want the peace and joy in your mind  
Give me the peace and joy in your mind

Ron knew his voice was a bit nasal when he was singing, and that his singing voice was average at best. The song was also relatively high, and he couldn't reach some of the notes, which came out rather out of tune. He received a large applause none the less. His eyes were still closed, and he could still see her face in front of him.

Even Teddy, whom had been lying asleep in Hermione's hands nearly all evening long, was clapping his hands. His eyes opened and he focused on him. He seemed healthy and happy. Ginny had mentioned that Harry had half-raised him so far, and had been spoiling him horribly. Teddy's smile was infectious. His hair, brown at first, was now a violent shade of red. Ron's eyes left Teddy and searched for Hermione's. When they found her, Ron noticed they were glossy, and a second later, a tear crept down her cheek.  
'Sounds like you've been enjoying yourself,' she said, getting up. She turned to Bill and Fleur, stating curtly: 'I'll check to see if Victoire is still asleep in her room.'

Ron was afraid she might react like that. Part of him agreed with her. He'd had enjoyed himself on the road, doing what he wanted without anyone else's interference. He'd spent a lot of time like that, not thinking about what others might say or feel about him. In that time he had been selfish, sometimes to the point of extremes. Those two weeks of partying in Berlin had been selfish, as had been the weekend in Belgrade. Parties every day; drinking, laughing, meeting new people, meeting women. He'd been clumsy in the beginning; self-aware. That had soon given way to a nearly nonchalant, witty routine though, which turned out to be highly effective. Looking back, he figured he needed that attention in the beginning, especially when he was feeling depressed. After a while though, that need had started to dwindle. He hardly ever sought out women since then. He'd only shared the bed with one woman during his third year on the road, and none in the last.

That last year had been solitary. Though several wizards and backpackers had offered to join him, he always refused. He wanted to travel alone. America had been a blissful country, the wildlife parks seemingly endless in size and beauty. He'd spent springtime in Yellowstone, one of the happiest times in his life. Just sitting there, on the grassy surface, looking out over a small creek and surrounded by trees, Ron felt a tranquility he had not felt before. It wasn't much later that he'd felt homesick for the first time in over a year. The feeling was heart-rending, nearly nauseating. He'd unconsciously changed his plans for Florida into plans for New York, something he'd later both regret and thank.

On his way there, other new feelings emerged, which he uncharacteristically recognized immediately. He'd felt them first when he was hitching a ride on the interstate. A family had pulled up, driving a Toyota. Father was behind the wheel, mom sitting at the passenger side, and their two children were seated in the back. 'Hi there, stranger,' the father had said, 'need a ride in the back?'  
The two children, both around the age of three or four, were playing together, and he had spent the entire trip in the back feeling a desperate longing for what that family had. There was only one person he could have that with. There was only one person that could fill that particular dream. And she'd just run off upstairs.

An awkward silence hung over the dinner table, broken by Teddy requesting a children's song. Ron smiled at him, then ruffled his hair.  
'I'll play you any song when I come back down,' he promised, 'go think of some you want to hear.'  
Ron put down the guitar and got up. The others remained quiet as he made his way to the stairs. Apparently, they understood this was going to be a private moment. He made his way up with familiar ease, and found Victiore's bedroom easily. From the sounds that came from the other two childrens's rooms, Dominique and Louis were fast asleep. Hermione was standing in the middle of Victoire's room, looking at the tiny small form of the blonde girl. Ron stepped into the room and stopped inches away from her. He could smell her familiar scent, her sweet fragrance. He had not found a similar scent anywhere in the world.  
'I know it sounds easy,' he whispered, 'like I'd forgotten about everything. For a while, I tried to. I'm not proud of how I left, nor of leaving for so long. I just had to leave.'  
'Oh,' she whispered ominously. Ron knew instantly she was angry, 'and that make it okay, does it? You feel the need to leave without notice and I'm supposed to be happy with that?'  
'Hermione, don't be like that,' Ron pleaded softly, 'I was messed up. Struggling with Fred's death, avoiding the overwhelming attention that everyone was giving us, I just wasn't me. Not that last year. Not that year where we tried so hard to be together, and everything we did somehow made us feel more apart.'  
'At least I was trying,' Hermione whispered, 'I felt like I was the only one keeping us together.'  
'You weren't,' Ron said, 'I tried my best. I really did. I was feeling all these emotions about Fred, about us, about the world. At one point, I couldn't discern what I felt about anything. Feeling itself slowly seemed to dim, like I'd drawn a shutter on my emotions. After we decided to take a break...' Ron could now feel Hermione's tension rising; it hadn't been a clean break, 'I realized I couldn't feel anything. I started planning that evening, and left a few weeks after that.'  
'So you stop feeling, and makes it okay to break our hearts?' she countered, 'Do you have any idea how your family took your sudden disappearance?' Her voice was rising now. 'How Harry felt, losing his best mate? How I felt..'  
He silenced her by touching her waist with his left hand. It was an old gesture, from just after the war. She stopped talking immediately.  
'Like I said,' he whispered after a moment, 'I'm not proud. Not of leaving so suddenly, nor of staying gone for so long. But I did need it. I needed to escape. Escape the people on the street, the people in the super. I needed to think, to feel. I needed the only thing you couldn't give me. Space. Space to find myself again. Space to put my thoughts in order.'  
Hermione was silent then. He knew she was still angry. He'd be, if he were in her shoes.  
'I left, because I couldn't find myself. I left and traveled all the world, and bit by bit, found myself back. But the better half of me had never left. The better half of me, was here. With you. That's why I returned. I want us to be together. I want us to be more than what we were looking for that first year after the war.'  
'Any you think I'll just forget this,' she asked sarcastically, 'That I'll just pretend like you never left me without telling me where you were headed?'  
'No,' he said, his voice barely audible even for her, 'I'm not asking you to forget. I'm asking you to understand. To understand the reasons I had for departing. If you understand them and still don't want to be with me, that's fine. It'll hurt like hell, and I'll likely never recover, but it'll be fine.'

Ron turned around and walked back out of the room, leaving Hermione. She'd need time to mull things over. She'd need time to figure out exactly how she felt. And time was something he had a lot of.

When he came back down, Teddy immediately cracked a smile. He wanted to hear "Bob the Builder"'s song. After three children's songs and the anthem of the Hollyhead Harpies (Ginny could sometimes pass for a child), Hermione came back down. She sat down next to Ginny, whom she sought eye-contact with immediately. Hermione had gone back to Hogwarts to finish her N.E.W.T.s, and had thus spent a year with Ginny. The two had developed a strong bond that year. Teddy was tucked into his own bed at Shell Cottage by Fleur, and when she returned, the group moved onto the soft sofas at the other side of the room. Ron sat in a plushy sofa near a fireplace, Harry, Ginny and Hermione were seated on the couch, and Bill was on a loveseat with Fleur half on his lap. They spent the rest of the evening and most of the night talking together. Hermione now asked questions too, although admittedly not as much as the others. She was smiling though, so Ron hoped she was feeling better. Right before she left with Harry and Ginny for the night, she suddenly asked him if he would play that first song again.


	3. Hysteria

Ron was standing just outside the edge of his parents's home. If he moved one more step forward, he'd enter the front yard. Outwardly, nothing seemed to have changed. The garden was in it's usual state of neglect, gnomes were infesting the rosebushes, and something in his father's shed was giving off black smoke. The Burrow itself seemed to have been patched up a little. The walls were freshly painted, a veranda had been added to the kitchen, and the roof had new tiles on it.

He was hiding behind a large rhododendron bush. Bill had told him of his parents's weekly family diner this morning. He had immediately decided that he would surprise his parents by attending. All of his family would be present then, and Bill agreed that their mom and dad would be thrilled.

And so, Ron waited in the falling gloom for the moment when all of the Weasleys to appear. Charley had floo'd in half an hour ago, followed minutes later by Percy. Ron had an excellent view on the kitchen from where he was standing. Harry, Ginny, and Hermione all came through the front door, Ginny giving him a covert thumbs up just before the door opened.

His mom had aged a little. She was thinner now, and, judging by what he could see in the few seconds the door was opened, had also attained a few wrinkles around her eyes. His father was unchanged, ever the same man Ron remembered from his earliest childhood.

George apparated in. Seeing him sent shivers down Ron's spine. For just a second, Ron thought it was Fred, and in that instance, he was back at Hogwarts, clearing rubble off his fallen brother's body. George was in a relationship now, and had become the father of a beautiful boy.

Now, the Burrow was nearly full. Bill and Fleur, their three children, Harry, Ginny, Hermione, George, Angelina, their boy Fred, Charley, Percy, Mom, and Dad were all sitting in the kitchen. Ron realized the extension of the kitchen wasn't done out of luxury, but out of necessity; there wasn't enough space for their family in the old kitchen.

His mother was busying herself with the soup. The smell of a rich Weasley meal wafted over from the house, and ultimately led Ron to move his feet forward. Once that first step was made, his strides only grew bigger. Wishing to reunite with his family for the first time in over four years, Ron marched up to the front door.

Meanwhile, in the Burrow, a clock chimed. It was a unique clock, custom made for Molly Prewett-Weasley, and given to her as a present from the man she would call her husband from that day on. It had nine hands once, until that fateful day when one of the arms had broken off. All of the arms save one were currently directed at "Home", while one had been stationary at "Travelling" for four years, three months, and twenty-one days now. As Ron's feet touched the grass of his parents's garden and the clock chimed, the last of the arms, bearing a picture of an eleven-year-old Ronald, moved from "Travelling" to "Home". None of the guests noticed.

One family member did notice however. She had been watching the clock whenever it chimed for the last few years, hoping to see what she had just seen. Molly Weasley's hand stopped in mid-air, the ladle of soup in her fingers forgotten. Its contents splashed onto George's hand.  
'Mother!' he cried out as the hot contents made contact with his skin, 'Aren't I disfigured enough?'  
Molly didn't notice.  
Silence fell over the room as all eyes moved from a frozen Molly Weasley to the clock she was gazing at. One of the kids was about to say something when the doorbell rang.

A cacaphony of sound as all of the Weasley's began talking amongst themselves. A mother, beating her children to the door, and opening it wide. A son, welcomed home after his long pilgrimage.

There was no song that could describe that evening. No words that could ever do that moment justice. Ron did not believe that any combination of instruments and notes would ever truly catch the emotions of that moment.

Surrounded by his family, Ron talked of his travels again. Seated next to Hermione, he told them of his life; of the long hikes in the wilderness, the campfires he had shared with other travellers, and the places he had visited. He spoke of Muggles and their ways, illiciting many questions from his father, and amazing Hermione with his ability to live in a world she had thought he would never be a part of. He spoke of spells and cantrips, earning the respect of his brother Bill, who was well versed in the magial arts. He spoke of parties he had visited, and beaches he had been on, causing a grin to form on Ginny and George's faces. A lastly, he spoke of his thoughts, confirming his parents's decision to let their son go about his adventure without letting him in on their overbearing worries.

It wasn't so much deep in the night as it was early in the morning when Ron stopped talking. Bill and Fleur had left for home, as had George and Angelina. Percy and Charly had fallen asleep against each other, while his parents seemed to be on the brink of dozing off. Harry and Ginny made whispered goodbyes, and apparated out with two barely adibly pops.  
'Just you and me, love,' Ron said, as he looked into Hermione's face, 'Got any burning questions?'

'Love?' she said, looking at him blandly. Though she was obviously still angry with him, Ron couldn't shake the feeling that deep down inside, there was still an overwhelming love buried away. He had decided that morning that he wasn't going to be put out by her demeanor.  
'Yes,' he replied, resting his elbows on his knees and closing the distance between them considerably. If she felt anything, she hid it well.


	4. Butterflies and Hurricanes

Those first days back in Brittain were bliss. Ron took temporary residence with his parents, sleeping in the comfort of his old bed. During the day, he'd visit some of his old friends, catching up on old times, or hearing what they'd done those past years. Meeting up with Neville had been a blast; they'd spent all night at the Hog's Head, talking about little things. Infamously susceptible to alcohol, Neville soon lapsed into a confession about Hannah, whom he had been pining over for quite some time.

Ron also visited some places alone. He hiked up to the forest of Dean, spending a night alone at the old campsite. Another day went by in solitude as he tramped around the forest of St. Ottery and Catchpole, a thing he had done for years when he was young. Visiting those old places soothed him. They reassured him that even though he had left for quite some time, not all things had changed.

Ron himself had of course changed considerably. He had grown more introvert, and more thoughtful. The solitude he had sought in those final days of his travels reverberated in his heart; he now shared it with only a handful of people, but the intensity with which he loved them had only increased. The longing to share his thoughts and feelings with them burned hotly in his chest.

Ron was sitting in the back yard. His hands were plucking small weeds from the rosebush. It was a mindless job, and Ron was lost in thought. He remembered the splendid beauty of Yellowstone, its rough edges, the wild streams. He had truly found peace there, in the heart of the park. Surrounded by game and wildlife, breathing the forest's murky breath of dawn, Ron had experienced a moment of tranquility he had not felt since his days in Hogwarts.

His hands reached out and pulled the last of the weeds out. He could have removed the weeds with magic, would probably have done so years back, but the work was therapeutic. Once finished, he selected one large rose and carefully removed it. He went inside, and washed his hands, then changed into something more formal. It was time for him to visit the one place he had been avoiding for years now.

The Weasley cemetary was near a forest west of Peasedown St. John, a small village near Bristol. Ron apparated to a cornfield a few miles south of the village. It was considered rude to apparate to a cemetary, and most wizards chose to visit either via Knight Bus, or to apparate to a repectful distance.

As he moved closer to the cemetary, small fragments of his brother's funeral came to mind. The procession moving steadily along across the old streets, the weeping faces of his mother and sister. He remembered some of the homes that lay scattered across the landscape; farms mostly. One of them was beautiful, a small brown farm with a thatch roof and a white front door. The lot it was on was lined by a large hedge, and covered in grass. There were apple trees all around the house, scattered apart just far enough for the house to still be in full daylight. The cast-iron fence that kept visitors off the property reached no higher than his waist, and served mostly for ornamental reasons.

As Ron watched the house, an old man walked up to him from behind.  
'Beauty, isn't she?' he said, as Ron turned to see who approaching. The old man was walking with a cane, and was supported by a woman in her late thirties.  
'Been in me family for more than good hundred years.'  
'Sure is,' Ron said, as the old man hobbled closer, 'pardon me for staring.'  
'Never you mind, young lad. You're not from around here, are you? Never seen you in the village before.'  
'No,' he replied, 'I came to pay my brother a visit.'  
For a moment, the old man's eyes focussed on the rose in Ron's hands.  
'Your brother dead then?'  
'Wilbur!' the woman shrieked, 'Where are your manners?'  
'Oh, shush you,' he said, adding strength to his point by ramming his cane down on the pavement. It might have worked if he had not nearly lost his balance in the process. 'Nurses an old man, and thinks she's become his mother.'  
The woman's eyes narrowed dangerously.

'Yes,' Ron said, hoping to intervene. 'My brother died a few years ago. This is the first time I've visited him in quite a while.'  
'Thought you might be,' he said, 'considering the hair and all. Quite a few redheads have taken this route to the cemetary these past few years. I don't have much to do with me health being what it is. Mostly just sit by the window nowadays.'  
'Sounds like a nice retirement,' Ron said.  
'It ain't. You try sitting by a window alone for three years.'  
'Would you like some company today? I've got an hour to spare, and I'd love to see the inside of the house.'  
'Anything to get rid of this old crone,' he said, shrugging off the woman's support and hobbling over to Ron. She narrowed her eyes even more, then said: 'Fine, I'll take the rest of the day off. If he falls,' she said at Ron, 'that's on you.'

A few minute later, Ron was inside, putting on a kettle of water for tea.  
'This has been me home for all me life,' the old man said, as he shakily took his place in an old chair by the window, 'Never once moved away from me parents, save for the war.'  
'You were a soldier then?'  
'Yes,' he said, gesturing over to a picture on the fireplace. Ron crossed the room and examined it. On it was a much younger looking man, barely out of his teens.  
'That was taken a few day before Normandy.'  
'You landed on D-Day?'  
'Yes. What carnage. Never once saw such a grisly scene before in me life. I arrived a few hours after the first assault. Them nazi's were still mowing down people on the beach, while our engineers were trying to blow a hole in their defences using bangalores. Had to hide behind one of them iron crosses for a good ten minutes before I had a chance to scurry ahead.'  
The old man turned out to be quite a chatterbox. He talked for a good hour about many different things. Ron listened attently, while he took in the interior of the house.

Unlike most farms, it was quite spacious. The livingroom was rather big, with a stone floor and brick walls. There was a fireplace in one corner of the room, blackened in soot and in desperate need of a good cleaning. There was a tiny kitchen in another corner, mostly there for making tea. Heavy oaken crossbeams kept the ceiling up, giving the room an authentic feel. Ron's interest did not go unnoticed.  
'I had a contractor remove some of the old walls. Used to be a maze of little rooms here, but I grew tired of opening doors all the time.'  
'I must say, you live in a beautiful home.'  
'Thank you lad, now pour us some tea.'  
Ron moved to the kettle and poured two cups.  
'I'd like me tea black as the devil's soul, with enough sugar as to be able to keep the spoon upright.'  
Grinning, Ron added six large spoons of sugar to the cup. When he sat back down, the old man moved forward.  
'You're one of them Weasleys, right?'  
'Yes,' Ron said, his surprise clearly present in his reply, 'How do you know the Weasley family?'  
'I was a gardener once, before me back gave out. Wasn't all too bad I reckon. I was asked a few years after I'd begun my own business by one of your grandparents if I'd mind keeping the graves tidy. Offered me a hefty sum to do so too. Naturally, I accepted. I kept those graves free of weeds for more than three decades.'  
'I see,' Ron replied, 'Small world.'  
'Yes,' he replied, 'Quite small.'  
For a moment, silence lingered between the two men. Ron sipped his tea, while the old man stirred his without taking his eyes off Ron.  
'I did me job quietly, as requested by your grandparents,' Wilbur continued, 'Mostly worked on it in the early mornings, when everyone but the baker is still on one ear. Once, I was working on removing some ivy from the older gravestones when I saw a ginger such as yourself enter the graveyard. Wishing her some privacy, I moved behind a tree.  
'Strangest thing happened. She seemed to conjure up some flowers out of nowhere, and placed them on the headstone.'  
Ron took another sip from his tea. The old man's eyes had not moved away from his yet.  
'Naturally, I took her for some artist. Perhaps a magician in a circus. But the feeling that something was off never left me.  
'A year later, a small group of elderly Weasleys visited another grave. This time I clearly saw them doing something nigh magically to the grave, and a piece of the headstone that had fallen off was somehow reattached. When I inspected it after they'd left, it looked right as new.  
'Then I saw the dates.'  
'The dates?' Ron asked.  
'Members of your family don't want to die, do they? I checked the dates on the headstones. Half of them died at an age of over a hundred.'  
The old man stopped stirring, and took a sip from his tea. His eyes were still fixed on Ron's.  
'Can you keep a secret?'  
'Nope, but since I have no friends or family, I doubt that makes any difference.'  
'We're not a- typical brittish family, in the general point of view.'  
'How so?'  
'Well,' Ron said, hesitant to break the statute of secrecy, 'We're...'  
'You're wizards, aren't you?' Wilbur said, effectively relieving Ron of the burden of having to say so. The ministry was a lot more forgiving if a muggle found out about wizardry on his own.  
'Yes.'  
'I knew it!' the old man said, slapping his leg in joy, 'What with that strange coin one of them payed me with once.'  
'A golden coin?'  
'Yup!'  
'A galleon. Must have mixed it with his regular money by accident.'

Wilbur was quite impressed. He spent a good half an hour asking questions. He seemed to be running low on energy though, and soon had to stifle a yawn.  
'I'm afraid I'll have to be off soon, Wilbur. I still need to visit my brother's grave, and with all due respect, you look like you could fall asleep any moment.'  
'That's fine, me boy. Can I ask you a small favor?'  
'Sure.'  
'Would you mind coming over in a few days? I might have a proposition for you then.'  
'All right,' Ron said, 'Three days?'  
'Three days it is.'

Ron left the small farm and greeted the old man as he closed the fence on his way out. Then, he turned back to the path he had been on before. The old man had been a delightful person, but the encounter had only made him more nervous of what was to come.

It took less then five minutes to arrive at the cemetary. After Ron entered, he walked through the old maze of headstones to the place where he had buried his brother. Fred's grave was off to the right of the center, and was quite unlike all the other graves. It was no secret that the Weasley clan had little in the way of monatary assets. On other words; they were poor. Most of the headstones were simple, limestone slabs, inscribed with a few simple words. Fred had been buried beneath a block of solid granite, inscribed with a posh message that went into how well he had done for himself.  
Leave it to Fred to find humor in his own grave.

Ron put the rose on top of his brother's grave. Tears came. He gave them free reign. He wasn't ashamed of his tears. Silently, he stood there, his mind bringing up flashes from that fateful night. The booming explosion that had seemed to rip the world apart still rang in his ears. The horrid discovery of finding his brother there, on his back, with blood coming out of one of his ears. The cry of pain his mother had given, when they'd brought his body down.

Suddenly, she was there. He had not noticed her walking up to him, nor did he know how long she had been there. But she was. She was there, and it felt right.  
'Do you remember how much he teased you with having become prefect?' she asked, her own tears welling up. A smile played on his lips.  
'Yes. I swear he did a better impersonation of Percy then Percy himself.'  
Hermione let out something between a sob and a laugh. He took her hand.  
'Thank you,' he said, turning to look into her eyes, 'For being here. It's more than I could have asked for.'  
'Let's just stand here for a while. I don't want to talk about us here.'  
'You're right,' he said, 'but all the same, I want you to know this means a lot to me.'  
'Don't let it get to your head.'

Once they had payed their respects, Ron and Hermione disapparated from Peasedown St. John to the Burrow. They walked into the kitchen, where he poured them two steaming mugs of tea.  
'So how did you know I was visiting Fred? I hadn't told anyone.'  
'Your mum,' she said simply, 'She noticed you'd taken a rose from the bush, and thought you might need a friendly face.'  
Hermione took a nip from her tea. Her brown eyes were focussed on the mug in her hands.  
'How long had you been standing there? You left a good two hours before I did.'  
'I'm not sure', he replied, 'I met an old man on my way over. Had some tea with him. Turned out to be the previous Weasley cemetary gardener.'  
'Really?'  
'Yes. He lives in a small farm nearby, beautiful thing, with thatch roof and a white door. Do you remember?'  
For a moment, Hermione froze.  
'Of course I do,' she said, remembering their shared dream. When they had been together, Ron and Hermione had told each other about where they wanted to live. It turned out both of them had wanted to live in a house with a thatch roof, and Hermione had insisted that it had a white door. It was one of the few things they had been able to agree upon in those days. Ron had taken Fred's death bitterly, and was easily set off. Whenever Hermione had tried to talk about something, he found himself disagreeing with most of it, and cutting conversation short.

Both of them sat at the table, reminiscing about the days just after the war. Hermione blew a the steam coming from her mug, Ron sat with eyes closed, angry at himself for letting it go that far.  
'I'm sorry,' he said after a while.  
'For what?'  
'For everything. For pushing you away. For breaking up. For leaving without a word.'  
'Are you?' she asked, 'Are you sorry? You seem to have had a nice time on the road.' Hermione's voice was light and casual, but Ron knew he was threading on frayed nerves.  
'Do you really think,' he said, reaching out and grabbing her hands in his, 'That it was all just a party? That I went from joy to joy, never once thinking back on my own mistakes?'  
Hermione sat up. She moved her hands back far enough as to be out of reach for Ron.  
'I've only told people the happy part of my travels. Should I tell them about my trek through Brazil? About how two muggles held a gun to my face demanding money? Or the endless night in Siberia, where I had to fight for my life, surrounded by a group of skinheads?'  
Hermione paled somewhat.  
'I left, broken and angry. It took me years to re-find that joy I once posessed. Every party I visited was brilliant until I awoke to find myself more alone than before. Every girl I kissed was beautiful, until I realized that all the company they could ever give me was insubstantial.'  
Hermione said nothing. She simply stared at her hands.  
'I ran, Hermione. I ran from my pain, from my mistakes, and from my anger. I know I could have handled it differently. I know I should have done so. I'm sorry if I hurt you, Hermione.'

Ron took his mug in both hands and drank deeply. Hermione sat in front of him, across the table, in silence. Ron smiled at her, wanting to close this depressing subject. Her eyes travelled from her hands to his own, and up to his face. She seemed to become marginally less angry.  
'I just remembered,' Ron said, 'I bought something for you!'  
'For me?'  
'Yup, let me get it. It's in my backpack.'  
Ron walked up to his room and placed his backpack on his bed. From within it, he extracted a small giftwrapped parcel. When he came back down, Hermione wasn't sitting by the table anymore. For a split second, he feared she might have left, but she walked back into the room from the kitchen.  
'Sit down,' Ron gestured, unable to keep is own expectation hidden. Shaking her head with an incredulous grin on her face, Hermione sat down.  
'Here,' he said, putting the packet on the table in front of her. As she opened it, he told her where he had bought it.  
'A little store in New York. When I walked by, it reminded me of you. Of how it would be impossible to keep you from walking in. When I entered, I saw this and knew this would be a perfect gift.'  
Hermione ripped open the giftwrapping, to discover Ron had bought her a book.  
'A children's book?' she said, before examining it further, 'How well you know me!'  
Ron ignored the playful jibe she'd made.  
'What's the title?' he asked, knowing full well how she'd react. Hermione turned the book face-forward, only to have her smile fade from her face.  
'Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone?'  
Ron merely smiled at her.  
'B-But, you mean to tell me muggles can buy a book about our adventures. We need to inform the ministry. We'll need to track down and obliviate any of the muggles that bought the book. What if there are reviews on the internet? Oh Ron, why haven't you told the ministry about this sooner? We need to head over there this instant!'  
Hermione had gotten up in panic, running over to her coat and putting it on. She threw Ron's jacket into his face, urging him on. When he didn't, she rounded on him.  
'Ron! This is a serious breach of the international statute of secrecy! We need to inform the ministry now!'  
'Check the back,' Ron said.  
'No, Ron! We need to tell the American ministry about this!'  
'Let's just check the back of the book before we do anything rash.'  
'Rash? Ronald Weasley, stop behaving like a little child and take your responsibility!'  
'Check the back, 'Mione.'  
Hermione furiously turned the book over and read the back. On it, unmistakeably, was a sign of the ministry of magic. Muggles would think it was a nice part of the cover, a detail that enhanced the feel of the book. Hermione calmed down somewhat.  
'What does this mean?'  
'I read parts of it. In a broad sense, they stuck to the real events, but they changed quite a few locations and dates. Hogwarts being somewhere in Scotland; everything happening a few years later; the Hogwarts express leaving from King's Cross. It's all there, but tweaked just so that the muggles won't be able to tell it's all real.'  
'A-Are we-'  
'Yes, we are in there.' he said, 'Our names are all in there, every single last one of us. Of course, they had to change some details. Your parents are dentists for example. Little things to keep people from discovering the truth.  
'It's an elaborate ruse,' he continued, 'Tell the muggles everything, and they'll pass it off as fantasy.'  
'But why?'  
'The ministry was afraid that muggles would find out about us through overhearing wizards talk. You know how poorly some of us are at keeping everything secret. My dad told me once that a wizard in Dublin was so poor at keeping covert, that a whole squad of obliviators is busy on a daily basis to keep him from spilling the beans. This way, wizards have an escape by saying they were talking about a book.'  
'Ah.'  
'I heard the book sells quite well in the abroad. There's talk of a second book coming out. Chamber of Secrets anyone?'  
Hermione smiled. It was a tender, shy smile. Ron could feel his heart pounding in his chest.  
'Thank you,' she said, sounding sincere, 'This is a beautiful gift.'

An hour later, Hermione left for her home. His mom, back from shopping, had told them she could eat at the Burrow, but she insisted on leaving. Together, they had walked to the back yard, where they said goodbye. Moments before she apparated, Ron asked her to read the inscription of the book when she was home.

Hermione arrived at her small flat-appartment in Essex. Hanging her coat up and taking her shoes off, she sat down on her sofa. Crookshanks lay curled up as a ball next to her, and began purring as soon as she touched him. Stroking his ear, he extended himself in pleasure. Then, he started sniffing her hand, and giving it a small lick with his coarse tongue.  
Hermione opened the book. There, on page one, was the inscription.

'Even in the book,  
you are, and ever will be,  
my greatest love.'


	5. Undisclosed Desires

Ron floo'ed out to the ministry, in stead of apparating. He hated apparating, and only apparated out of necessity. He had gotten the hang of it after the war (it wasn't all that hard), but he had never taken to its characteristic feel. His memories of being splinched were enough to convince him not to tempt fate any further. Floo powder was perhaps a little crude, and a bit more restricted, it was also relatively safe, and you always had control of where you were going.

Once at the ministry, Ron emerged from one of the many fireplaces, brushing some soot off of his shoulders. Guided by years of experience, Ron set off for the stairwell. Most of the ministy personnel used the elevators. They were swift, easy, and reliable (in so far as anything in the ministry could be called reliable). The stairwell had not so much been added to the building because it was necessary, as that all buildings contained stairwells, and thus the ministry too. They were seldom used, except for the occasional claustrophobe that refused to enter the elevators.

On his way up, Ron thought he heard his name. Like all people, he could not suppress the urge to see who had said his name. Three elder witches were bunched together, one pointing directly at him.  
'So much for staying anonymous,' he sighed, as the witches eyed his progress.

Ron walked up two flights of stairs. On his way up, Ron saw a few memo's buzz overhead. One was on the floor, with a footprint on it. It stirred feebly.  
'Trampled on your way up, little fellow?' he said, as he picked it up and unfolded it. It was a memo for a guy named Wilkins, department of magical law enforcement. He pocketed the memo, and strode up the last few steps. He was on his way to see Hermione. He had not seen her since giving her his present, even though he had written her half a dozen times since between then and now. Hermione seemed to be warming up to him a little. The initial cold shoulder she was offering him had now been replaced by a 'sensible indifference', as his little sister would put it. Hermione seemed, for all outward appearances, to not care. She had told Ginny his gift had been 'nice'. She had not accepted his invitation for a dinner at the Burrow, claiming to have to work that evening, even though Ron knew for a fact that she didn't.

All in all, he felt a little like he did at the beginning of their sixth year at Hogwarts. There were differences though. Ron knew for a fact that he was in love with Hermione. You didn't travel the globe for four years without realizing why you fell asleep with her face pictured in your mind every night. You didn't spend three weeks on horseback at the mongolian highlands thinking of her smile when the sun set without knowing full-well just how much that person meant for you. Ron knew in his bones that Hermione was his soulmate, the one person he could share everything with. In a way, Hermione and he had a stronger connection that Harry and he could ever have.

Ron pushed open the door for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. As always, the lobby was a complete mess. It was barely noon, and already, two of the three potted plants had been burned down by dragon's breath. The lobby was filled with wizards and witches. Ron did not envy Hermione's collegues.  
'Ronald!' a short ministry witch said in surprise, 'I didn't know you were coming!'  
The girl in question was Marie, a bright, bubbly witch who had been one year ahead of them at Hogwarts, and who still remembered Ron from Hermione's internship. A the mention of his name, the lobby fell into a dead silence, as many of the wizards and witches present turned to look.  
'Hello, Marie,' Ron said, ignoring the crowd, 'I'm on a surprise visit. I'd like to ask Hermione to come a visit a friend of mine for lunch.'  
'Ah,' she said, 'Good luck with that.' She gave him a small smile, then patted him on his shoulder as she walked towards a group of warlocks in the lobby. Marie was a bit of a tomboy, with her short-cropped hair and petite figure. She could, however exert an air of authority like no other. As she approached the warlocks, they immediately quieted down. She ushered them into a diagnosis room, but not before turning to look at Ron for an instant, and making a face.  
That girl is insane, Ron thought, Absolutely insane.

Ron knocked on Hermione's door. A feeble and weary 'it's unlocked' came from inside. Ron opened the door a little, peering inside. It had been years since he had been there last. They had still been an item then, and Hermione had just started at the ministry. Little had changed. Her desk was still in the same corner, placed just so that she would sit in the sun during the morning. There were some ministry posters hanging from the walls, mostly about house-elves and their quality of life. One poster read 'You wouldn't beat your dog...', and showed a house elf cowering on the ground. It was one of Hermione's first campaigns against the mistreatment of house elves, aiming for public awareness through shock. It had worked marvellously. The posters had been hung at all wizard-only locations, such as Hogsmeade and the Leaky Cauldron. There had been some controversy, since most people felt that the posters were too graphical.

Hermione was seated behind her desk in her own comfortable chair, head down in order to read some report. Her tell-tale bushy hair had been tamed, and was now a full auburn mane. She'd told him some years ago that she loathed the time it took to comb it. Ron knew for a fact that Ginny had been jealous of her hair, and the natural fullness and shine that came with it.  
'Still busy as a worker bee,' Ron said, as he entered the room. Hermione looked up, then smiled. Ron had called her a worker bee when she had just started at the ministry. She had smiled sweetly at him then, and the name had stuck for a while.

Hermione closed the report she had been reading, then pushed it to the side of her desk.  
'A public appearance of Ronald Weasley, and without a cap and sunglasses. How long has that been?'  
'Quite a while actually. People are staring at me as I walk by.'  
'They used to stare at me too,' Hermione said, 'But the interest fades after a while. The novelty wears off.'  
Ron took a seat in a chair opposing Hermione's desk.  
'Would you like to have lunch with me?' he asked, 'I promised someone I'd come over today, and I think you'd enjoy meeting him too.'  
'Who?'  
'Can't say. Top secret.'  
'As in, "I won't tell you unless you join me?"' Hermione said with a raised eyebrow. 'How long is this visit going to take?'  
'I'm not sure. I guess theres no reason for it to take more than thirty minutes.'  
Hermione seemed to be thinking about it. He wasn't sure if asking her out for lunch this soon after his return was a good idea, but Ron had learned on his trip not to over-think things.  
'All right,' she said, 'but I swear, if you take me to Madame Puddifoot's, I'll back here before you can say Crumple-Horned Snorkack.'

In silence, the walked down to the atrium. Together, they turned quite a few heads. One witch actually walked into a burly warlock because she hadn't been looking where she was going.  
'How you ever got used to this, I'll never know,' Ron muttered under his breath, as they headed to the disapparation area.  
'I never did,' she replied, 'but I decided to stop annoying myself about it.'  
Ron held out his hand, and Hermione curtly took it. Using side-along apparation, they left the ministry.

The apparated half a mile from Peasedown St. John. Ron led the way, knowing just what roads to take to get to the little farm just off from the cemetary. When they arrived at the hedge surrounding the farm, Hermione stopped. One side of her mouth curled up in a half-smile. After a moment, she said:  
'It beautiful, Ronald.'  
Ron agreed. Even now, with some dark clouds in the sky, and the temperature quite a bit lower than his previous visit, the small farm looked like a building out of a magazine. Its thatch roof was in fine condition, with little moss on it, the white door was immaculately clean, and the yard's grass mown.  
'Want to meet the owner? I met him before visiting Fred's grave. He's an old coot, but still all right up here, I guess,' Ron said, pointing at his head.  
The door of the farm opened just before Hermione could answer. Wilbur came hobbling out, leaning on his cane for support.  
'Mister Weasley!' he said, 'I wasn't sure if you'd come over.'  
'I said I would,' Ron replied, 'and I brought a friend over.'  
'Aye, and what pleasant company indeed! Come over here, lass, and help an old man back into his chair.'

A few minutes later, Ron was seated next to hermione at Wilbur's table by the window. Hermione had made tea, which Ron now poured into three cups.  
'Black as the night, with enough sugar for a heart attack, right?' he asked, as he poured Wilbur's cup. His own smile was met by Wilbur's. Once the tea was poured, Wilbur leaned back into his chair.  
'You brought a friend, eh,' he said, 'Have you two known each other long?'  
'Hermione and I went to school together.'  
'Ah,' he said, 'So she knows you quite well?'  
Hermione looked at Ron for a moment. She seemed rather taken aback by Wilbur's questions. Ron suddenly realized Wilbur was trying to be covert. Ron had told him about the statute of secrecy, and Wilbur was trying to find out if she could do magic as well, without asking it plain.  
'Hermione does magic too,' he replied, answering the question that really mattered, 'Quite a bit better than me actually.'  
Hermione, who Ron had not told much about Wilbur besides him being a muggle, looked at him in slight outrage.  
'So there are two wizards in my little house now?' Wilbur said almost reverently. He seemed mightily impressed. 'Could you perhaps... err.. give me a-errr.. demonstration?'  
Ron reached inside his pockets for his wand, but Hermione, having gotten over her initial shock, produced it a bit faster. She pointed the wand at the fireplace.  
'Tergeo!'  
Within seconds, the soot and grime belonging to years of cold winters dripped down from the stone fireplace. It leaked down into the hearth itself, where it could easily be disposed of. If possible, the fireplace was now cleaner than the rest of the house.  
'Wow,' Wilbur said, after opening and closing his mouth several times, 'That's just.. I can't even imagine.. Wow.'  
Hermione stowed her wand away again. She seemed to be satisfied with the reaction, as she always was when her spellwork was evaluated by others. Ron had learned that underneath her steadfastness and composture, Hermione was actually quite insecure. He had come to love that side of her, the side that was real, and which she shared with nobody else but him.  
'You'd be surprised at how little added value magic has,' Ron commented, 'It makes life easier, but it really doesn't improve it so significantly.'  
Now, it was Hermione's turn to look baffled. On of her eyebrows lifted up slightly.  
'What happened to you in those four years out backpacking, Ron?' she asked sarcastically. Ron gave her a mock-smile.

For nearly half an hour, Wilbur barraged them with questions about wizardry. He was interested in quite a few things, and their answers seemed only to spur newer questions. Some things they kept silent, such as the wizarding wars, the existance of dragons, goblins, trolls and whatnot, and locations such as platform nine and three-quarters. After a while, Hermione asked him about the house.  
'Mister Yorke, may I be so bold as to ask for a tour around your farm? I'd love to see what the rest of the house looks like.'  
'My lass,' Wilbur replied, 'You certainly may! I'd give you a guided tour if me legs could still take me up to the second floor. Why don't you go and take a look around. Don't forget to visit the barnyard in the back yard.'  
Ron was about to get up when Wilbur asked him to pour another cup of tea. He gave a tiny wink, so discrete Ron nearly missed it. Assuming the old man had something to ask in private, Ron told Hermione he'd catch up with her. As she left for the back yard through the kichen, Wilbur produced a small binder from behind his chair.  
'I've got me a problem, son,' he said earnestly, 'And I hope you might be able to help an old man out.'  
'Me health is fading,' Wilbur said with a note of regret, 'I'm eighty-two years now, and I can feel my strength declining with each day that passes. At first, I started needing a nurse to help me with heavy things like groceries, or climbing stairs, but these days, I've gotten to be more and more reliant on her.'  
Ron took a hesitant sip of his tea. 'If you want me to heal you magically, I'm afraid to say it won't help much. The natural aging-process can't be stopped or slowed down magically. That's just.. nature's process, running it's course.'  
'Use magic on me?' Wilbur said half in shock, 'By the gods, no! I don't want to see you pointing that stick on me, even if you could make me twenty again.'  
'I've lived a long and happy life, regardless of the war and the fact that my love died before we could have kids. I don't have regrets or fears.'  
'Then what is it you want me to help you with?'  
'I saw the look in your eye when you were on your way to the cemetary a few days ago. I saw how my farm took your eye. True?'  
Ron smiled. 'True. It's a beautiful building, and it seems to be in mint condition.'  
'I expect my health will decline further. In a few months I expect I won't be able to take care of myself as I used to. A few weeks ago, I decided I'd sign myself in for a retirement home. I've visited it a while back, it's actually quite nice. Of course, I'd need to let go of this little lot first, and since I don't have any family or children, I thought I might sell it to you.'

It took a moment for Ron to register what Wilbur had just offered him. This quaint, lovely little farmhouse, located in a small village near the Weasley cemetary, was for sale?  
'I- I don't know what to say.'  
'For now, say nothing. Let me sketch you an outline of what I intended.'  
Wilbur opened the binded and withdrew a few pages of what seemed to be a contract.  
'I had my accountant jut this down. It's not a legal document, but I think it helps to fill in most of the blanks.' He offered the pages for Ron to read.  
'As you can see, the taxated value of the property is quite a bit higher than what I'm asking for. I don't need a lot of money, and I'd love to help a young man such as yourself in finding a good place to settle down.'  
Ron quickly scanned the pages. Wilbur was asking less than half of the market value for his farm.  
'Surely you can't sell this house for such a low price, Wilbur.'  
'Be quiet now, Ronald. As I said, I don't need any money. Once I've payed for my room at the retirement home, my only costs will be food and the occasional bill. Even if I sell my house for this price, I'll still end up with more money in the bank than an old man such as myself, in failing health could spend.'  
'But why me? I've known you for three days!'  
'When I first saw you, you had the look of a man in love, Ronald. I could see how much you liked the house, and even at my age, I can still value a man on sight.'  
'Are you sure about this?' Ron asked.  
'Yes. Take your time to mule this over, Ronald. I'm not in a hurry. Let me know what your decision is when you are sure of it.'  
'Sure of what?' Hermione asked. She'd just entered the room from the kitchen. 'Your house is beautiful by the way, mister Yorke.'  
Wilbur smiled. 'Let me know, kid,' he said, leaving Hermione's question deliberately unanswered, 'And remember, no rush.'


	6. Madness

Ron had been thinking about Wilbur's proposal for a few days. It seemed like a great opportunity. The house was everything he could hope for in a house and more. He could picture himself comfortably sitting in a hammock between two apple trees, or just enjoying the warm rays of the sun on an early morning. He had taken Wilbur's contract to a colleague of his father, a ministry official that worked at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and who spent all day poring of just these sorts of contracts. The few suggestions he had to offer were minute details. In essence, the contract was fine as it was.

He had spoken to Wilbur twice since his visit with Hermione. Wilbur had not yet contacted a realtor's office for his house, and had ensured Ron that he was currently the only one aware that the house was going to be for sale. He had also told him not to hurry his decision; he wasn't planning on dying any time soon.

Hermione had sent him an owl. She had asked Ron if he wanted to have a cup of tea at her place. Naturally, Ron had accepted, moving the appointment he had made at Gringotts a couple of hours to the afternoon to clear his schedule. Hermione lived in a small apartment above a book store on the outskirts of Brighton. She had moved there a few years back, so Ron had never seen the place. After checking the address, he rang the doorbell. An electric buzzer went off.

He heard Hermione getting down the stairs and open the narrow door to her apartment.  
'Welcome,' she said, 'to my humble abode.'  
Ron entered the tiny hallway. Hermione closed the door behind him and urged him on. Ron climbed the staircase and entered her living room. He instantly butted his head against a shelf laden with books.  
'Oh, Yeah, mind the bookshelf', Hermione said sheepishly. She passed it easily, her small frame not nearly long enough to hit the six-feet-high wooden obstacle.

Rubbing the bruise on his head, Ron surveilled the utter chaos of Hermione's tiny studio apartment. Books everywhere. On the kitchen counter, on her bed, on the floor. Books on the refrigerator, the shabby sofa, and the shelves she had added to every available surface of her walls. The dining room table, which took up about half her apartment, was covered in numerous layers of them, and had obviously not been used for quite some time. Ron's eyes darted here and there, until they settled on Hermione, leaning against the kitchen counter, a mug of tea clasped in her hands.  
'I like what you did to the place,' Ron said coolly, 'Very organised.'  
Hermione looked up from her tea for a second, a grin on her face.  
'Well, I rarely have to invite anyone in. Ginny seems oblivious to any sort of mess. Your entire family does, now that I come to think of it. Harry has learned the hard way not to bring the subject up.'

Ron chuckled. There was an easy, natural way of talking between them now that had eluded them in the year following the war. Hermione and Ron had been rowing consistently about everything those days, and their rowing had not been the same as it had been at Hogwarts. There had been a bitterness and ugliness in it then, a dark shadow that never quite seemed to lift.

A few minutes later, Hermione an Ron were sitting on her sofa, just idly talking about the weather and some gossip when Hermione suddenly asked: 'Ron, I received a postcard from Philadelphia a while ago. It said you were leaving for New York.'  
'Yes?'  
'Were you there?'  
'Aye,' Ron said, not really feeling in the mood to discuss it, 'I was there.'  
'Harry no longer reads the muggle newspapers. He has been swallowed by our world, much to his own desire. He rarely interacts with people outside the confines of our community, which I can understand. He was never really a muggle to begin with, and the memories he has of that time leave something to be desired of.'  
'Your parents never understood the muggle world, nor could they. They are, by all standards, the definition of a wizarding family. I would doubt they would have understood the significance of what happened that day.'  
'What are getting at, Hermione?'  
'If I know you just a little bit, Ron,' Hermione said gently, 'And I think I know you quite well, I think you would have tried your best to help anyone that day.'  
'Yes' Ron said, barely audible.  
'Tell me, Ron.' Hermione said. 'Tell me what you saw. Tell me what happened. You don't have to carry that burden alone.'

Ron closed his eyes. Again, he saw himself standing in an overcrowded subway heading from Brooklyn to Manhattan. His eyes tracing the displaced air plane heading straight for the second tower, the ominous confirmation of the suspicion gnawing at everybody's gut; _it was intentional_. Ron remembered getting out of the subway and running the eighteen blocks to the World Trace Center. He remembered taking out his wand and confunding two police officers to let him into the area itself.  
'I'm not sure if that is such a good idea,' Ron said, 'It was in many ways the most horrific thing I ever witnessed.'  
'Tell me, Ron,' Hermione insisted, 'You really should share this with someone.'  
He recalled the deep thud coming from his right, and glancing over to see the remains of someone whom had taken command of his own life; a jumper. He recalled standing there, taken completely by the devastation that remained. Meanwhile, men and women were scurrying about, most of them fleeing the scene, but also a few brave heroes that went in. In, to give aide to those in need. Up, dozens of stairs to fight a blaze that would not be quenched by anything. It was their determination, the steadfastness in their eyes, that got Ron back into motion. He joined a group of fire fighters, ignoring their protests and rushing up the stairs with the same courage and purpose.

It wasn't long before he had to make use of his wand. Covertly, he reduced the temperature around them. The protective cocoon didn't last long against the propane-fueled inferno that raged overhead. He did manage to clear the air a little, allowing them to breathe. He knew they had noticed his spellwork. Some of the men had seen him, and stood gazing at him silently. Their chief knocked some sense into them.  
'Snap out of it, you fools!' he cried over the sounds of bending steel and cracking concrete, 'We need all the help we can get!'  
Ron was saved twice by a fireman that day. Once, when he attempted to open a door, but was knocked off of his feet by one of the firemen within a second of opening it. A jet of flame exploded out, blasting them with heat. A second time, the staircase simply dropped out from below his feet. It had taken two firemen to reel him in from where he was hanging by his fingers, a seventy foot drop awaiting him below.

The first tower collapsed when they had reached the area that had been hit most powerfully. Dust and smoke obliterated all of the daylight. The electricity was off, and the few electric torches the firemen had were woefully insufficient to be useful.  
'Lumos!' Ron said, the powerful rays of his wand able to shine a light on their situation.  
'All right, men,' the chief said, 'That was the other tower. With the staircase out below us, and an inferno above us, I don't think we can do much more than pray.'  
Ron wouldn't have it. He ordered the men to round up as many survivors as they could. After a few minutes, the building gave an ominous groan so low and menacing Ron decided he wouldn't wait any longer.  
'Hold hands. Form a circle!'  
The firemen, not quite sure of what was going on instinctively looked at their chief. He clasped hands with two injured victims, and soon, the group of eight fire fighters and eleven scared or unconscious employees working at that floor were in a rough circle, with Ron in the centre. He reached out for a young woman's hand, and when he touched it, he realized their time was running out. Another deep groan reverberated through the building, deeper and angrier than before. Ron thought he could see movement in the building itself, and without explaining what he was about to do, without even a single thought about how he was going to move these people, he disapparated.

The pain was intense. The dark tubing constricting him at every turn. Fighting to remain conscious, Ron left the World Trade Center and apparated to the top of a hospital. Several victims were splinched. One of them was missing a foot. Medical personel, the magical kind, came rushing out to meet them, alerted by a ward that a large body of patients had arrived. Ron's eyes met with the chief, who looked at him thankfully. The deafening crash of the second tower broke their revelry.  
'Tell me your name, stranger', he said, 'So I may tell my wife who saved us.'  
'Ronald, but you won't remember me.'  
'No spell or magic will make me forget you, son. I will name my firstborn after you.'  
'Obliviate', Ron replied.

Ron and Hermione talked for about an hour. He recounted his story to her in unusual detail, not wishing to omit any details. She listened with apt attention. Her eyes never wavering, she asked him: 'Did you truly do such a heroic thing, and wipe their memories? Without them knowing who or what saved them?'  
'They saved themselves,' Ron replied, 'as they saved me twice. I merely omitted myself from their toils. Besides, my spellwork was patchy at best. When I left the hospital a day later, I saw the chief in the hallway. He was with his wife. She was eight months pregnant, and he was telling her he liked the name Ronald.'

The clock struck four. Ron suddenly remembered his appointment at Gringotts.  
'Shite!' he said, getting up. He bumped his head again, which solicited another round of curses. Hermione looked at him in bewilderment.  
'What?'  
'I have an appointment at Gringotts.'  
'Gringotts? Didn't they ban us for life?'  
'Yes!,' Ron said, still looking furiously at the bookshelf overhanging the sofa, 'But they couldn't openly accuse us of robbery, as that would be bad publicity. In the end, they decided to let things slide.'  
'Why do you need to visit Gringotts anyways?'  
'I need to check the balance on my checking account.'

Ron hurried down the stairs and opened the door. Hermione grabbed his hand, turning him around with minimal effort.  
'You are the bravest and kindest man I have ever met,' she said, slightly amused by his haste, 'You do know that, right?'  
'I do. I just hope you will forgive me running away so brusquely all those years ago.'  
'I can't promise anything. Let's just take things one step at a time.'  
Ron reached out and kissed her. It was a simple kiss on her lips, but not romantic. It was a kiss between dear friends. A kiss between a husband and wife, leaving for work. A distracted kiss between lovers who will shortly meet again. Whatever it was, it was enough to conjure a smile on Hermione's face.

Ron apparated to Gringott's at exactly the right time. Hermione had a habit of keeping her clocks ahead of time, a thing Ron continually forgot during all the years that they knew each other. _I guess it serves its purpose._

Ron walked through the busy hall of Gringott's only to join a queue of at least ten people long. After about two minutes, he was at the head of the line.  
'Mister Weasley,' the goblin said with a nasty drawl. It was clearly not amused to find him here, 'Not here to make a _withdrawal_ are we? Our security has been increased quite a lot since your last visit.'  
'I am not here to discus our previous- encounter, and I doubt your boss would want us to in such public surroundings.' He made a step sideways and showed several of the warlocks and witches in the queue were clearly eavesdropping.  
'I have an appointment with one of your colleagues, a goblin called Shellshove.'  
'Table seven. Next.'

Ron walked to table seven. He had specifically demanded a meeting in a public table, not wishing to be left alone in a room in this place. The goblin sitting at the table resembled all the other goblins working at Gringotts. Leathery, old, and greedy. Ron introduced himself. Shellshove didn't mention the incident with the dragon, obviously instructed to ignore the whole matter.  
'What is it we owe this wonderful visit to, mister Weasley?'  
'I am currently investigating my options for buying a bit of real estate.'  
'I see,' and what might we have to do with that?  
'It belongs to a muggle. I will need you to convert from galleons to Brittish currency.'  
'I see, but wouldn't that imply you to actually _have_ galleons to convert?'  
'Excuse me?' Ron said.  
'No offence, mister Weasley, but I have checked your account a minute ago, not a knut is left. Not that there was much to begin with.'  
Ron looked the goblin in the eye. He could sense the animosity it was hiding. After a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty.  
'My checking account has been empty for about as long as it has existed, sir. I would like to pay for the property using the reward money that the Ministry of Magic so kindly bestowed upon the three wizards that destroyed Lord Voldemort. Reward money that has remained unclaimed by us until now.'  
Shellshove flinched at the name Voldemort. He recovered quite quickly, but appeared to be a little flustered.  
'I assume the money remains in the care of this fine establishment?'  
'Quite obviously so, mister Weasley,' the goblin replied. If the prospect of forking over money didn't rattle his bones, the subtle reminder of their escapade a few years back did. Shellshove motioned a clerk to approach.  
'Mister Weasley would like to collect the reward money due him.'

Ronald had expected the Goblins to try and keep as much of the money as possible, and he was not mistaken.  
'Subtracting a fee of ten percent over the first tier of seventeenhundred-ninenty-nine galleons, thirteen knickels and seven knuts, a fee of eighteen percent over the next tier of...'  
'Enough!' he said, rapidly losing his temper with the goblins. They had been deducting fees and taxes from the reward for half an hour now. They had gone as far as demanding 'a compensation for the cost of setting aside the money between the day it arrived in Gringotts and now', claiming they had to install an updated security system to 'keep unwanted felons off of the money'. Reminding them that the lower vaults were acclaimed as the safest vaults in all the world by Gringotts themselves fell on dead ears.  
'Lets just turn this around. I need this sum of money in pounds. Convert it to galleons, and be done with it. I don't need any of the other money. We'll consider it compensation for the damages to the property and image of Gringotts. But I don't want to hear an ill word coming from the lot of you, about either myself, Hermione Granger, or Harry Potter.'  
An old goblin emerged from behind the others. He had presumably been standing there for a while, and as he made his way to Ron, the other goblins parted way. Apparently, this was a big shot in among their ranks.  
'The goblins at Gringotts might have endured the reign of a madman for quite a while,' he said at last, 'We have done so before, and we could do it again. But from what I've heard, the reign of You-know-who would have been indefinite. Even we would not have endured a storm that long. For that, we will always be grateful.'  
'Your - unwanted presence - was however a grave intrusion on our hospitality and would require a substantial compensation indeed to assuage. I think your proposal would meet most of our demands.'  
'Most of your demands?' Ron asked, knowing to be careful around goblins.  
'If I may, I would like to suggest the following...'


	7. Follow Me

It was early in the morning and Ronald Weasley was making his way through the as-yet deserted streets of Brighton. The sun was about to rise, and an orange sheen was creeping up from the horizon. Birds were starting to sing, though the songs Brighton's most prominent avians were the shrill caws of gulls. They were busying themselves with bags of trash, fighting amongst themselves over the contents.  
Ron had gotten used to the early mornings. He had loathed them at Hogwarts, where he had to be dragged out of his four-poster after all the others in the dormitory had already gotten up. That had arguably been the hardest part of learning to live in the rough; getting up at the crack of dawn. After a couple of weeks though, he had gotten used to it, and now it was a pattern he could no longer break. He awoke half an hour before dawn, whether he wanted to or not.

Crossing the street, he spied the little book store Hermione lived above. The iron fencing was still down, and the lights were off. The only place with a bit of activity had been a bakery a few blocks down. Ron rang the doorbell. He rang it twice, and he could hear the electric buzzer going off on both accounts. He patiently waited for Hermione to get up. She flipped the light on about ten seconds after he had rang, and he could feel her adding a few protective wards over her already over-protected home. Ron suppressed the urge to ring the doorbell again after waiting at the door for about a minute. _She'll open up when she's ready.._

Ron's ability to sense magic, such as the wards Hermione had just placed and those Bill had placed on his own cottage on the night of his return, was quite ordinary for wizards that have come of age. Hogwarts, being the magical hub that it was, flooded a young wizard's senses, depriving it of sensing any details. It wasn't uncommon for wizards and witches to really start to feel the more subtle nuances of spellwork after leaving school. Ron had started feeling it quite fast after getting on the road, because he had mostly travelled to non-magical places. After a while, even the slightest spellwork and the weakest of charms seemed to draw his attention, eliciting a sensation that was difficult to put into words. It was like a background noise that you did not actively notice unless you were told it was there. Unheeded by most, only those new to the sound could really tell it was there. Ron had spent a night sleeping in an apartment near the freeway. When he had asked the owner a day later how he'd been able to sleep through such a loud racket, the owner merely shrugged and said: 'I don't even hear it anymore.'

After another minute, he could hear Hermione descend the stairs. She seemed to be on guard, her steps slow and cautious.  
'Come on, Hermione,' Ron said to the still closed door, 'It's cold outside, and I'm pretty sure I couldn't murder you even if I tried. Smartest witch of our time, remember?'  
Hermione quickly removed her wards and opened the door.  
'Ron!' she said, her hands on her hips, 'What on earth makes you think I deserve a visit at this hour? It's not even five o'clock, for Pete's sake!'  
Seeing her standing there with her hands on her hips, her hair in a tangle, and a scowl on her lips somehow made her irresistible to him. The fact that she was wearing one of his old shirts didn't help either. It reached all the way down to her knees, and it was at least ten sizes too large for her. Milky white legs peeped out from below them.  
'It's your day off,' he assured her, 'I thought you would want to spend your time optimally.'  
'What are you talking about?' she asked, as he squeezed past her and ascended the stairs. 'I've got three appointments at the ministry today, not to mention the reports I need to hand in.'

Ron didn't reply, but merely crossed her living room and flipped on the water heater. Hermione worked best after she'd had her morning tea.  
'No, I arranged for you to have a day off,' he explained, 'The ministry can function even without you there every day.'  
Hermione was about to protest when Ron turned around and faced her. 'Your boss told me you had not taken a single sick day or vacation leave since you started there three years ago. She practically tried to force me to get you to take up more days than just one.'  
'Y-You called my boss to arrange for me to take a day off, without even telling me? Are you mad?'

Ron offered her a weak smile and a cup of tea in response. She seemed genuinely upset with him, and not the least bit confused. For half a minute, she scolded him, telling him to leave her in charge of her own working hours, and not to call her boss again.  
'Fine, fine. Drink your tea,' Ron replied, remaining calm in the face of her storm.  
'No, Ronald!' she said, still angered, 'You just can't do this shit to people! I was planning to meet up with a couple of warlocks from foreign ministries today, to discuss elf-welfare in the abroad, and see if I can extend our activities to other ministries. I've been trying to set up that meeting for months. You can't just do these things. This is my job! Just because you don't have a job doesn't mean you should interfere with mine!'  
Ron let Hermione's comment slide and breathed in deeply to refrain from responding. It would lead to a massive row; that much he knew from experience. Hermione seemed to run out of steam a bit, taking a tiny sip of her tea.  
'I wanted to be here before the newspaper arrived. I wanted to tell you before you read about anything in the paper.'  
'Tell me what?'  
'That I collected my part of the reward money the ministry had offered for the defeat of Voldemort.'  
'You did what?' Hermione replied, 'I thought you didn't want that money?'  
'I didn't,' Ron said, 'I don't.'  
'So why would you collect it? And why would it be in the news?'  
Right at that moment, there came a tap on the window. An owl was perched on the window sill, a newspaper attached to it.  
'Perhaps you should read the news and find out..'

Hermione paid the owl and flipped open the Daily Prophet. On the front page, in a bold font was his name, above a picture of his in Gringotts.

**GRINGOTTS AND WEASLEY FINALLY SHED LIGHT ON OLD MYSTERY**  
_Ronald Weasley, known throughout the country as one of the wizards instrumental in the downfall of You-Know-Who, finally sheds light on one of the few remaining mysteries surrounding the end of the Dark Lord's reign of terror. _

'You did an interview with the Daily Prophet about our heist?' Hermione asked incredulously?  
'Yup,' Ron replied, 'a heavily censored, much edited version of what actually happened. It was one of the conditions of the deal I made with the goblins?'  
'What for?'  
'Two things. The first was that Gringotts would stop treating us as criminals. Their version heavily implies that they had known of our plans beforehand, and that they had allowed us to steal the horcrux.'  
'The hold on Harry's vault is lifted,' he continued, 'and no goblin will ever utter a backhanded insult to our faces again.'  
'We were doing fine without Gringotts, Ronald,' she replied, 'You didn't need to do that.'  
'Consider it a bonus. George and Bill told me they had not been able to do regular dealings with the goblins for years. They imposed insane taxes on every transaction they made. This interview will return everything to normal for everyone, including my family. Harry will be able to get to his parents's money again, and you will no longer have to keep your money in a sock under the mattress.'  
'So what was the second thing?' Hermione asked.  
'For that,' Ron said, 'We need to go for a ride. Get dressed, we've got a lot of work to do!'

Hermione seemed mildly amused, and decided not to protest any further. She picked up a few stray items of clothing from the floor, and went into the bathroom. Ron remained seated on the edge of her sofa, gently humming a song. This was proving to be a good day.  
Hermione emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later. Her hair was tamed, a fresh layer of mascara had been applied, and she had slipped into a comfortable set of clothing. She stashed his old shirt under her pillow.  
'Still sleeping in that old rag, I see?' he asked.  
'Every night,' she said, her face a little red. He had given her the shirt shortly after getting together for the first time. It was way too big for her, and Hermione positively drowned in it. It also looked absolutely stunning on her, and in the few happy moments they had spent together, it had been like an aphrodisiac for him to see her wearing it. It still was, now that he came to think about it.

Together, they walked down the stairs and out into the Brighton streets. The lights were on in several homes now, and the first of the morning commuters were on their way. A couple of cats could be seen here and there, emerging from their nightly endeavours hungry and tired.  
'Where are you taking me?' Hermione asked.  
Ron didn't reply, not wanting to spoil the surprise, but he did take her hand and set a course to the beach. They walked at a leisurely pace, savouring the moment. Neither of them spoke, relishing the fresh scent of the morning dew and the quietness that came with a city not yet filled with cars. When they got to the beach, Hermione breathed in deep, enjoying the salty air that was inextricably connected to it. She squeezed his hand for a moment, and they shared a quick glance at each other.

'I've noticed you don't use magic that often anymore,' Hermione said.  
'I guess so,' Ron replied. It was true, he didn't take out his wand at every opportune moment. He had used the water boiler just now, instead of simply conjuring the hot water. In fact, Ron hardly ever used magic if there was a suitable, non-magical replacement for it. 'When I was out and about, I couldn't use magic very often. At the start, I was mostly accompanied by muggles. Later, I stopped caring about how fast or easy I was able to heat my tea or dry my clothes. It was really liberating not to have to worry about time or deadlines or money. Just a simple life, playing the guitar or whistling a tune was enough.'  
'I never pegged you for the outdoorsy, gypsy lifestyle,' Hermione said, 'Especially not after our seventh year.'  
'Ha,' Ron said, 'It wasn't all bad. I might have been negative about it at the time, but that's because the difference between my comfortable, pampered life at the Burrow and Hogwarts was so great. I was cold and wet and miserable, and I wasn't used to any of that.'  
'Later, when I got my own apartment, I started to feel a yearning to be outside again. Smelling the dewy grass, walking through the forests, looking out over a big lake. My own apartment never really felt like home to me. The walls felt like they were closing in on me.'

Hermione seemed lost in thought for a while, an so they stood in silence for a minute, looking out over sea and watching the slow progress of the sun climbing the sky.  
'Merlin's beard, Hermione. I did miss you all that time.'  
Hermione looked up at him, her chocolate-coloured eyes gazing at him critically. 'I can't recall the number of times that I sat on some hillside overlooking a beautiful vista or stood at a party, holding a beer thinking how wonderful it would have been if you'd been there. How happy I would have felt if I had been able to share those simple, glorious moments.'  
Hermione broke eye contact and Ron could see her mood turn sour.  
'Well,' she said, her mouth getting rigid and her hand pulling away from his, 'I guess I might have joined you if you had just suggested that before leaving. Before leaving not just me, but your whole family and all your friends without a clue of where you'd gone and how you were doing.'  
Ron wanted to tell her he was sorry, but Hermione didn't give him a chance to interrupt.  
'In fact,' she said, crossing her arms under her chest and turning to face him, 'I doubt you understand how terrified we were when we found out you had just vanished! No note, no explanation, no _nothing_!' she said, her nostrils flaring in anger.  
'Hermione, I-'  
'No, Ron!' she said, 'It hurt! I didn't know where you were. I didn't know what you were doing, or if you were all right. All we knew is that you were "travelling", and that only because your mother's clock told us so. Can you imagine the hurt and frustration I felt when you just up and left us?'  
'I do!' Ron said, trying to find words for the hopelessness he had felt, and hoping that he would be able to convey them to Hermione, 'I understand I let you down. Aside from the fact that we were no longer together as a couple, I still betrayed your friendship leaving the way I did. You mean the world to me. You, Harry, my family, all of you! Leaving was the hardest decision I have ever made, but I knew you would all try to talk me out of it. I knew that my mother would do everything in her power to keep me in England. I knew Harry and you would wear me down over time. You would never be able to understand just how run to the ground I really was.'  
'We knew you had issues,' Hermione countered, a little less venomously than before, 'We knew how much Fred's death had affected you.'  
'Did you?' Ron asked, now talking in a half-whisper, 'Would it not surprise you just how dark my thoughts had become? How often I played with the thought of- ending it all?'  
Hermione's eyes widened. A sharp intake of breath told him she had in fact never known just how deep his hopelessness had run, and how far he had travelled to climb out of that place. The blood drained from her pretty face, and her eyes became glossy and downcast.  
'You-'  
'Yes.'  
'But, you never-'  
'No,' Ron said, cupping one of her cheeks in his hands and tilting her face back up to his, 'I never told anyone. If you know me half as well as I think you do, you'd know I'm not one to flaunt my emotions. Having no-one to vent my feelings to, no-one to go to with my grief, it overwhelmed me. I stand by my decision to leave without notice, even if it hurt you as much as it did. I am convinced that if I had not left, or if I had told you and you would have talked me out of it, that darkness would have consumed me.'  
'Oh Ron,' Hermione said, burying herself against his chest, her arms wrapping around him, 'Why on earth did you never tell us anything. You know you could have told us anything. You know you could tell _me_ anything!'  
Ron pulled her into a tight embrace. He kissed the top of her head, and then breathed in the smell of her hair. It was perhaps what he had missed most in all those years.  
'Hermione, we weren't really in our best of times,' Ron said, 'Remember? I tried to bring it up once or twice, but I never quite got the words to come out of my mouth. We would probably have rowed about it anyways.'

They stood there for a while, both unwilling to let go of each other. After a while though, Ron untangled himself from Hermione's embrace and turned to walk to the beach again. Hermione discretely wiped the tears that she had felt rolling over her cheeks away and followed him.

The beach was deserted. The sand was sticky from morning dew, clinging to their shoes. They were among the first to visit the beach; only two other sets of footsteps were visible. After walking for about five minutes, Ron was sure they were safely away from prying eyes. Ron held out his two thumbs, which was a wizarding invitation to side-along apparation. Hermione took hold of them, and together, they left the beach.

The road to Peasedown St. John was still deserted when two wizards apparated onto it. A farmer that had gone up at the crack of dawn to milk the cows thought he heard a popping sound, like the opening of a bottle of beer. A sparrow that looked out from a branch of a tree saw two humans appear out of nowhere. Neither of them paid it any heed.

Hermione and Ron stamped the sand out of their shoes, brushed some imaginary dust off of their shoulders, and then looked at each other.  
'Is this-'  
'Yes,' Ron said, noting that he had answered another of Hermione's questions before she'd had time to complete her sentence. 'We're off to visit Wilbur again.'  
'You are quite taken with him, aren't you?'  
Ron smiled. 'Well, I guess I am. The man has some interesting stories to tell. Did you know he landed on Omaha beach in Normandy?'  
'Ron, I wasn't even aware that you knew about Omaha beach to begin with.'  
Strolling along the path, Ron told her about his time in Europe, and how it was impossible _not_ to know anything about WW2.  
'Really, Hermione,' he said, after telling her he had visited the old wall of Berlin, 'People thought I was mad at first, not knowing about the war. There is truly not a single place in Europe that does not contain some memorial or reminder of the old muggle war. People got angry with me when I asked them why the concentration camps were so bad. How could I know they actually gassed millions of people there? I thought it was just some sort of prison..'

They had reached the cast-iron gate of Wilbur's old farm. Ron leaned against it as he saw Wilbur seated at his usual place by the window.  
'Aren't we going in?' Hermione asked.  
'Just a minute,' he replied, taking in the simple beauty of the old farm. The early morning dew clung to the thatch roof, giving it a dark colour. There was some moss on it. He'd have to remind himself that he'd have to get rid of that soon.  
Wilbur was getting up from his seat by the window, moving to open the door. Ron could see two heavy looking, leather suitcases next to the front door.

After a few seconds of serenity, Hermione pushed him aside. 'It is rude to make people wait, Ronald,' she said. She walked up to the door, which Wilbur was already opening. 'Hello, mister Yorke!'  
'Well hello, lassie,' Wilbur said merrily as Hermione shook his hand, 'Come to see an old man off?'  
'You are leaving?' she asked.  
Wilbur exchanged a quick glance with Ron, then made a vague non-committal reply.  
'Are you all set?' Ron asked, 'Or have you decided to chicken out at the last minute?'  
Wilbur prodded him with his cane. 'You better watch who ye be callin' a chicken there, boy. I can still change me mind..'  
'That is odd,' Ron replied coolly, 'I distinctly recall you telling me you were as excited a schoolboy for your first day there.'

Meanwhile, an old black cab pulled up to the house. Hermione instantly recognised the red-and-gold crest of the British Magical Cab Company, which had operated in all of Britain for over a hundred years now.  
'What's going on?' Hermione asked.  
'Wilbur has sold his house a little while ago. He was planning on going to a retirement home called "The Old House of Essex", but I managed to convince him, and a few of the right people at the ministry to opt for a more suitable home instead. It was a bit more expensive, but I'm quite sure Wilbur will be more than pleased with their service.'  
'Where are you going then, mister Yorke?' Hermione asked, lending a supporting arm to Wilbur, whom had begun to sway a little as he headed out to the cab.  
'A place called "The Redwood Estates".'  
'Isn't that-'  
'-A retirement home for witches and wizards,' Ron said as he hoisted up Wilbur's two heavy suitcases, 'And squibs, to be exact.'  
'Watch who you're callin' squid, sonny.'  
'Squib,' Ron corrected, 'It means non-magical folk that know of our world. Consider it a compliment.'

The cabdriver quickly levitated Wilbur's suitcases into the trunk and settled Wilbur on the back seat.  
'My,' he said, 'This cab is _huge_!'  
'An Enlargement spell,' Ron said, 'You should see my father's camping equipment.'

After a few minutes, they had said goodbye to Wilbur, promising him they would stop by once or twice a month to say hello. The cab sped off, vanishing from sight before rounding the corner.  
'Well, that was fun!' Ron said.  
'That man is going to have a blast,' Hermione said as she checked her watch. 'With a bit of luck, I might still make it to work on time.'  
Ron looked at her incredulously. 'You can't be serious!'  
'I am! I'm a busy person.'  
'Could you do me a favour before you leave? I have thing I need your help with at home.'  
'Sure, what is it?'  
'I'll tell you when we get there.'

Ron held out his thumbs again. Hermione took hold of them. Nothing happened. 'Remember your D's Ron,' she said after a little while, in an effort to be supportive.  
'No,' Ron replied, 'I guess we're already there.'  
Ron opened the cast-iron fence and strode up to his new home. Hermione looked at him thunderstruck.  
'You mean you-'  
'I bought it, yes.'  
'How?!'  
'The goblins drove a hard bargain with the Ministry's reward, but in the end, I was more than able to afford this little dive. I also paid for Wilbur's retirement home and any of the paperwork that was necessary to clear things with the ministry.'  
Hermione was still standing at the fence, her eyes filled with a look of disbelief. Ron opened the front door, and invited her in.  
'Aren't you coming?' he asked, after noticing she was still motionless. All of a sudden, Hermione kicked into action. A smile from ear to ear spread on her face as she ran up to him.  
'Ron!' she said in a high pitched squeal as her arms enveloped him in a bear hug, 'I'm so happy for you! This house is exactly what you've always wanted!'  
'No Hermione, you're wrong,' Ron said, 'It's what _we_'ve always wanted.'  
Hermione turned her face away, a red blush creeping up on her face. She couldn't keep it turned away long though, because within a few seconds, she had turned her face back to him.

With Wilbur's belongings all cleared out, Ron noticed for the first time how large the farm's living room really was. The door opened to a small hallway, which opened out into the living room. The living room had several floors of different heights. The lowest part contained the large fireplace, and was about three feet lower than the doorway. It was snugly tucked away in the far corner of the room. There were no windows there, and Ron thought it would make for a cosy and romantic sitting area. The difference in height would make it feel a bit smaller, even though the room was actually quite large. He would have to go out and buy some furniture though; he didn't own a single piece.  
There were two other floors of different heights, one containing the table and chairs Wilbur enjoyed sitting at, near the window, and one containing the stairs to the first floor. The floor near the window also contained a small kitchen, with a simple stove, and some small cupboards. Ron guessed that he would have to redesign the kitchen. His appetites were still quite large.  
'So what do we do now?' Hermione said, rolling up her sleeves. 'May I suggest we start by cleaning everything up a little?'

Three hours had passed, and Ron and Hermione had made some remarkable progress on cleaning the house. Muggles would have spent days cleaning out the cobwebs from the rafters, and sweeping the dust-bunnies from the floors. Hermione's spellwork had been efficient. The rafters looked like they had just been installed, and Ron guessed you could eat off the floor. Ron had moved some of Wilbur's old and worn down furniture out to a shed. Wilbur was a great guy, but his tastes for decoration and furniture were as antique as his age.

The first and second floor had proven to be more of a challenge. Wilbur had not been able to clean or even visit those floors for what seemed like a couple of years now. There was a nest of bats hanging from the thatch roof, and Ron even spied a bowtruckle before it quickly vacated from a broken window. There had been quite a few of those in the farm, and some spellwork from Hermione had repaired all but the worst of the damages. The second floor was a completely emptied out attic. All of the walls that had once been there had been removed. What remained was a room of about 150 square feet, with a high, thatch ceiling. After noticing the many cobwebs and spiders hanging from it, Ron had asked Hermione to clean it out, quickly busying himself with something more urgent downstairs.

When he returned from scrubbing out the bathtub for ten minutes, he saw Hermione finishing up on cleaning the attic. Not a trace of gossamer remained, much to Ron's relief.  
'I also cleaned up the windows a bit,' Hermione said, 'they were so grimy, they were almost opaque.'  
A strong ray of sunlight flooded in from the four small windows, lighting up the entire attic. Hermione was standing directly in it, and the bright mid-day sunlight illuminated her almost magically. She was studying her handywork as Ron stood transfixed, unable to keep his eyes off her. The light seemed to dance off of her face and hair, revealing every strand of her mighty crown. The small scar on her neck stood out in greater detail. She had tried to hide it at first, until he told her that she should wear it with pride. It was a battle scar, and wearing it openly would be the ultimate insult to Bellatrix LeStrange.

Hermione didn't seem to notice his enchantment until after she had asked him something and Ron didn't respond. A small smile played on her lips. She folded her hands under her breast, and lifted one eyebrow confidently. When they made eye contact, that confidence seemed to fade a little. Ron, however, took a step forward. Then another, and another, until he stood within an inch of her. Hermione tilted her head up. Ron bent down and kissed her. He kissed her tenderly. He kissed her as carefully as he could. She was a treasure to him; not a one-in-a-million girl, not even a one-in-a-billion girl. She was the only person he could ever kiss like that. Never before her had there been anyone as perfectly suited for him. Nor would there ever be anyone after her like that. He had been without her for four years, and it had taught him one important lesson. Hermione Granger was the only thing he would ever need, the only thing he would ever want in his entire life. And wanting her was exactly what he was feeling right now. His hands travelled down her body in old paths that felt excitingly new. He could feel her thin waistline, and the gentle curves down to her hips. His fingers brushed her spine, each vertebrae defining a small hill in a straight path down to her sacrum.

Hermione eagerly replied to his kiss. He could feel the urgency in her lips and tongue as they pressed onto his. Her breathing was heavy and warm. Her eyes were open, and they looked straight at him. She held him close. One of her arms was draped around his shoulders, while the other pulled his waist close to hers.

When they pulled apart, Ron could feel a sheepish grin spread on his face. Hermione grinned back at him, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight.  
'Oh Ron,' she said, snuggling close to him, 'Can't we just-'  
'-Start over?'  
'No,' she said, 'I don't want to start over, I want to _continue_. I don't want to forget what happened before. I don't want rip a page out of our history just because it doesn't suit us. We've both learned from it. It serves it purpose, as a reminder.'  
'A reminder?'  
'Of what will happen when we stop talking to each other,' she said, 'When we stop working on "us".'  
'Let's just focus on the future,' Ron agreed.


	8. Invincible

It had been an eventful week for Ron. He had thoroughly underestimated the work that had been necessary to get the farm into something of a habitable environment. His parents had busied themselves all week in the garden surrounding his home, mowing the grass, trimming the hedges, and even de-gnoming it, as the little bastards had already been sighted. Harry had helped him to clear the moss off of the thatch roof, slightly disillusioned when Ron told him he wanted to do it without magic. It was a little silly, Ron supposed, but having been out and about with muggles had made him much more hesitant to use magic.

It had started in Brazil. He had taken a job in removals at the company of a barrel-chested man named José. José was naturally suspicious of all of his new personnel, and Ron had been no exception. His first day of work consisted of moving about fifty heavy boxes with books from point A to point B. José had been watching him like a kneazel all day long, so Ron couldn't perform any sort of charm to lighten the boxes or even move them magically. At the end of the day, his back had been aching, his arms were weak and trembling, and José had told him he had never met anyone more diligent than him. Ron had gone home feeling broken but also strangely proud of having done so much hard labour without magic.

His time in Brazil had been great, and part of that was due to his new-found love for hard manual labour. Ron had taken on ever more difficult work, relishing the feeling of having done something no self-respecting wizard would do. After all those years studying magic at Hogwarts, Ron could only imagine what his professors would say if they had seen him then.

Ron had also insisted on repairing the door of the farm manually. Harry had told him off.

'Have you completely lost your marbles?' The look Harry shot Ron was incredulous.

'What?' Ron said indignantly, 'I worked at a construction site for a month. Fixing a skewed door should not be all that hard.'

Harry had left after Ron had taken the door from its hinges, muttering under his breath that Ron was daft for not using a simple spell to repair the door. It had taken quite a lot longer than Ron had anticipated though. After retrofitting the flanges on the door, Ron found out the door wasn't completely straight, so he'd had to plane it for nearly an hour. After that, he had to go into town to get paint for it. He had finished the job half an hour ago, and had retired to the hammock he had installed in the front yard.

There, he sat strumming his guitar, enjoying the simple melody he was absent-mindedly playing. One leg dangling out of the hammock, Ron gently swayed back and forth as he revelled in the weak sunlight of England's winter.

He had asked Hermione to come over for dinner. After sharing a kiss in the attic, Hermione had seemingly kept her distance. Ron let her, wanting to give her some space even though he'd rather spend all of his free time with her. Her job at the ministry ate most of her time though, and she had cancelled their plans for dinner two days ago because she had to meet a deadline. Ron had suggested coming over to help her, but she had declined, telling him she'd rather do it alone. That had stung a little, though he did not press the matter.

Swaying in the gentle motions of his hammock, Ron felt his eyelids grow heavy. The guitar forgotten, his thoughts slowed down. The image of Hermione's face in the light of the attic swam up to him, and Ron felt a bit of irritation at her dismissal of dinner. Still, she had sent a letter asking him to reschedule, and had accepted his offer of dinner today directly.

Outside the farm, on the all-but-deserted road that led to the cemetery, an old farmer leisurely walked by Ron's home. The farmer had lived in Peasdown St. John all his life, and knew everyone that had been born and raised in the tiny community. As he passed Ron's cast iron fence, he looked in momentarily and saw a young man clutching a guitar and sleeping in a vibrantly coloured hammock.

An hour later, Ron woke from his stupor. The wind had picked up, and though it was a far cry away from regular winter days, it had grown quite chilly. He rubbed his arms in an attempt to get warm, then hopped out of his hammock. He checked the time.

_Shit!_, Ron thought, as he noticed the time, _Hermione is going to be here in thirty minutes!_

He quickly cleared out all of his tools and stored the paint in a small shed built against the side of the farm. It was perhaps five foot across, and Ron readily expected it to become a broom cupboard. As he walked to the kitchen, Ron realized he had forgotten to get several of the ingredients he needed.

Hermione had just arrived when he got back from the small grocery store. She was sitting on the hammock, clearly uncomfortable.

'You're supposed to lay down in them,' he said, 'If you sit in it like that, your back will kill you in a matter of minutes.'

Hermione looked up and offered him a weak smile.

'I'm afraid to fall out of it if I move,' she said with a sheepish grin, 'How can anyone relax in this?'

'It's easy,' Ron said, putting down the groceries and walking over to her, 'You've got to stabilize yourself by making yourself larger. Here, let me help.'

He took her hands and placed them further apart. Then, he told her to tuck in her legs. When she did, he hooked one foot behind a fold of the hammock, allowing her to rotate her body ninety degrees and gently sink into it.

'It's a bit like flying a broom,' he explained, 'Once you get the hang of it, you'll never forget it.'

'Ron?'

'Yes?'

'Do you remember the last time I was on a broom?'

'No.'

'Neither do I.'

'Right,' he said, 'Good point.'

'This is quite comfortable though,' she said, as she stretched out her legs completely.

'I know, I've slept in it for more than a year. A simple impervius charm to keep dry, and warm water bottle to keep me warm is all you really need.'

Ron went back to the groceries, and headed back inside.

'Ron!' Hermione said, 'You put me into this contraption, you've got to help me get out of it too!'

'Are you a wizard or not?'

Hermione sputtered and her eyes narrowed as Ron opened the door and chuckled. Sometimes it was just too easy to get to her.

Hermione and Ron prepared the food together. It was quite a challenge; the kitchen was currently under construction. Ron had removed most of the kitchen from the wall, apart from the stove, which he intended to keep. Hermione was seated at the table, chopping up some paprika and some peppers. Ron busied himself making tomato sauce, which he did using only natural products. The recipe had been handed down to him from a fellow traveller, and almost everyone admitted to liking it.

'Did you chop up the mushrooms?' he asked, while stirring the skillet.

'Yes,' Hermione replied, 'Just like old times.'

Ron glanced over in her direction. A smirk was on her face.

'Quite,' he replied, 'But with much more cooking and less complaining from my part. I never really gave you any credit for your skill in cooking back then.'

Hermione got up and passed him the mushrooms.

'You didn't really need to,' she said, 'You were glum, and moody, and mostly under the influence of that horrid locket. You certainly made an effort in praising me when you returned.'

Ron took the mushrooms and added them to what was rapidly becoming a tasty sauce. He suppressed a smile. He had been copiously complimenting Hermione on anything he could, hoping her mood with him would improve. He took a small taste of the sauce. It was bland.

'I never thought you would be such a skilled cook,' Hermione said, after handing him the salt, 'You never showed any interest in it.'

'I had to learn how to cook, 'Mione. Nobody else was going to do it for me.'

Hermione pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, glancing down to her trainers. Ron knew her well enough to know that his casual insertion of his favourite nickname for her didn't go unnoticed. Ron took another sip of the sauce. It was better now, but needed some pepper.

Ten minutes later, Ron was seated at the table by the window with Hermione in front of him. Going for a bit of romance, he had put on a radio station playing love songs, and lit a few candles. Hermione took a measured nip from her pasta. He had shielded her from it all through the process of making it, claiming she wouldn't be able to fully appreciate it if she had tasted it before it was done.

'It's really tasty,' she said with a genuine smile, 'It's a bit hot though.'

'That'll be the peppers. It takes some getting used to.'

'Where did you get the recipe again?'

'I got it from this girl from Italy. She insisted on cooking for me when we were at the same dormitory in Prague. Of course, all the other blokes in the dorm demanded she'd make it for them too. Poor girl had to cook for twenty people that night. She-'

Ron noticed Hermione smile had fallen.

'What's wrong?'

'Nothing.'

Something obviously was wrong.

'Spit it out.'

'No, it's silly.'

'Out with it,' he demanded.

'I was just- I wondered if you- You know...'

Ron remained silent. He had a feeling what this might be about, but he'd be damned if he was going to bring it up himself and spoil a carefree evening with Hermione. Hermione was obviously having a bit of trouble getting the words out.

'-I wondered if you'd been with anyone when you were away.'

'Yes,' he said, a little blunt. He wasn't going to make it sound like an apology. 'Yes, I have.'

'Oh.'

Ron could see Hermione's mood change. She seemed quite happy and content up to now, but the smile had completely faltered, and she was pushing the food on her plate around without eating it.

'I understand,' she said, not making eye-contact, 'I can't really blame you for that, right?'

Now it was Ron's turn to fidget.

'It was a way out for me in the beginning. The first few months. It was a relief valve for me. I kissed a handsome number of girls in those months. After then, I sorta lost interest.'

'But did you have anything more permanent?'

'Twice,' Ron said, a tone sadness having crept into his voice, 'One girl from Denmark called Mirte. I was with her for a few months, but we grew apart.'

'You grew apart?'

'That was a friendly way of saying I grew tired of her gullibility and simplicity. She believed everything I told her, no matter how farfetched. I just couldn't picture myself with her.'

_Which is to say, she couldn't compare to you._

'Who was the other one?'

'A girl called Sari,' Ron said, 'She was a blast. I really enjoyed our time together, and under different circumstances, we might have stayed together.'

'So what drove you apart?'

'I was still in love with you.'

An uncomfortable silence descended over the table. Hermione seemed frozen like a statue. The only movement Ron could make out was her biting her lip. Ron didn't know if saying it like that was wrong of him. He had all but told her of his feelings for her the day he took over the farm, and having kissed her certainly wasn't unambiguous. There was something definitive about stating it like that though. It implied more than just the attraction and a deep caring that he knew Hermione was aware of in him. Stating it so plainly felt like a challenge. Hermione suddenly lifted her fork up and took another bite of pasta. She had not said a word, not nodded, nor even acknowledged that she had heard Ron. She just continued eating. Her smile appeared to have returned. Ron felt the need to explain himself further.

'By then, I had been travelling for two years. I had visited all these beautiful places and experienced some once-in-a-lifetime shit. But I started getting detached. Whenever I was with a group, I'd find myself making excuses not to join in excursions. When I'd find myself alone, I'd plan trips to remote locations. I never stayed anywhere at the same place for long. Things also began feeling _ordinary_.'

'Don't get me wrong, Hermione, the world is full of special places, and every town, every forest, every glen has something beautiful. But there are also a lot of similarities. You stop admiring every tree when you visit a forest. You're no longer impressed with a local parish once you've visited a cathedral. I realized that all of my fellow travellers had something in common.'

'I realized I was really looking for answers on my own. I started camping in less hospitable areas. National parks, jungles, swamps even. I'd just walk around by day looking for food, and play the guitar at night until I fell asleep. I think I was already on my way back home when I visited New York.'

This seemed to interest Hermione.

'After getting those firemen out, I left the city. I wandered around, half-dazed and a little bit in shock. I kept wondering what would have happened if I had died without patching things up with you. It felt like a tragedy.'

'I remember coming home from work that day,' Hermione said. It was the first thing she had said in quite a while. 'I had flipped on the telly and all of the channels had footage of the towers crumbling. It was such a frightful day. I thought of you too then.'

'Listen, Hermione,' Ron said, putting his spoon down and taking her hand in his, 'Neither of us are as naive as we were before. I know I love you, and that I will do anything to be with you. I'm quite sure there were suitors for you in my absence. I'm quite sure you didn't spend every night alone.'

Ron deliberately left a moment's pause, inwardly hoping Hermione would object. She didn't.

'I never wanted you to be unhappy, and if you've found love in the arms of another man, I won't get in your way. But if you feel only slightly like me, if you feel but a shred of what I'm feeling, know that I will fight to get you back.'

Hermione had been looking down for quite a while now. Then, without warning, her gaze found his.

'This meal is a good start.'

Two hours later, Ron sat playing the guitar. Hermione seemed to love listening to his music. Propped up against the wall (Ron still didn't own a couch) she watched him in wide-eyed wonder. Finishing his last song, Ron held out his hand. He turned the radio up, and slowly danced with Hermione, savouring the smell of her so close to him, the gentle way she squeezed his hands, and the playful curse she muttered as he stepped on her toes. Ron had hoped to kiss her again that night, but the opportunity didn't present itself. Hermione left with a hug.


	9. Liquid State

Ron had decided to pay Hermione a visit during lunch. He had made sandwiches, washed and crowned strawberries, and even bought a bottle of wine (though he was sure Hermione would object to drinking during office hours). He had packed all of it in a basket, which he was now carrying with him through London. On a whim, he had also decided to take his guitar with him, knowing Hermione enjoyed listening to it. It would make a nice addition to what was sure to be a great picnic.

It was winter, and a cold wind was blowing from the east. Last night had brought snow, and the streets were slippery with the now blackened mush that always came with snow in large cities. His boots, sturdy walking shoes that had been with him for ages now, were caked with it, and he made a mental note not to forget to clean them before entering the ministry.

Ron took his time. He enjoyed walking through London, the big city filled with busy people so absorbed in their own lives and agenda's that they hardly took the time to look around. In fixed routines, they strode on through the streets and alleys hailing cabs, talking to people on telephones, or doing some shopping. Ron found himself gazing around, trying to see people who broke the pattern.

He found an elderly lady standing by the road. She was slightly bent over, her hair hidden beneath a plastic kerchief meant to keep it dry. She was holding two grocery bags. Her eyes were fixed on the incoming traffic, which was dense and moving at high speed. It looked as if she was afraid to cross the road. Ron walked up to her and took her by the arm.  
'Don't worry, madam,' he said, trying to sound a bit like a gentleman, 'I'll help you cross the road.' He linked his arm around hers, steering her forward while forcing the cars to stop with his other. Apparently taken aback, the woman sputtered.  
'My!' she exclaimed, 'I- I never!'  
He steered her along, as she tried to wrestle from his grip. _Bit of a shock for her, apparently_, Ron thought, as he pulled her forward a bit further. They were halfway across the road when the old lady managed to pull herself from him. She swatted him upside the head.  
'I don't know what your play is,' she said, 'but I was just waiting for a cab to show up! What were you thinking?'  
Rubbing his head, Ron heard her muttering about 'misguided youths', then saw her board a black cab and speed off. Ron was still in the middle of the road when the traffic was honking at him. One of the drivers opened his window to fling some profanities at him.

Feeling a bit sheepish, his long strides took him from the commercial district to the abandoned telephone booth that was the public entrance. He impatiently dialled the number and talked to the operator. Not a minute later, Ron was standing in the Atrium.

There were quite a few people walking about. It was almost lunch time, and a few ministry officials were already heading out, probably to beat their colleagues in the line of the bakery, or to avoid the queue that always formed at the exit shortly after half past twelve. Ron checked to see if the picnic basket was still all right, and if his guitar was undamaged. The telephone booth had been cramped, and he had needed to wedge the basket between his feet in order for everything to fit. It all looked to be in a proper state, so he made his way towards the stairwell.

Several memo's were zooming overhead, as he picked his way down to Hermione's department. Ron arrived at the landing of the second floor only to be welcomed by an unseasonally heat. It looked like the environmental charm was malfunctioning again. He quickly descended two more stairs to arrive at the department for Regulation of Magical Creatures. The lobby, filled with a colourful array of wizards and creatures, was in its usual state of disarray. He picked his way through the mess of upturned chairs and broken furniture. Ron wasn't sure what had caused this mayhem, but judging by the foul looks everyone was giving an Irish warlock, his leprechauns must have played a not insubstantial part in it.

Ron smiled and waved curly to Marie. She was guiding a goblin to the liaisons office. She waved back, but her smile faltered oddly fast. Ron didn't quite know what to make of it. Perhaps just stress.

Hermione's office, which wasn't much more than a cupboard with a desk and two chairs crammed into it, was a the back of the department. It was less noisy there, and when he neared her door, he heard her voice.  
'Now, Robert,' she said, her voice unusually high, 'You can't expect me to approve your reports just because you've offered to buy me lunch.'  
_Who is this Robert?_ Ron thought, jealousy flaring up in him.  
'Well, miss Granger,' a deep, rolling voice replied, 'I don't actually expect it. It is more of an... unspoken assumption.'  
_This guy is smooth.._  
'Well all right,' she said, 'But I'd better not hear any objections if I just happen to pick something expensive to eat.'  
In a blaze of jealousy, Ron suddenly found himself standing in the doorway of Hermione's office. She was sitting behind her desk, a small pile of reports and papers in front of her. Seated casually in the chair in front of her was a warlock perhaps five years older than her. He tall, well-built, and dressed in dark navy robes. He exuded an air of nonchalance that Ron instantly recognised from his own experiences. He had used it quite often in bars and at parties to chat up girls. Robert coolly hung back in his chair, a perfect display of innocent interest broken only by his grey eyes which seemed to take in Hermione's form greedily. Hermione seemed oblivious to it. Ron felt in instant dislike for this guy.  
'I'm afraid she already has plans, _friend_.'  
The way Ron said the word friend left little in the way of what he thought of Robert. Both of them seemed startled by Ron's sudden appearance. Hermione rolled her chair back a little. Was her subconscious trying to increase the distance between her and Robert? Robert recovered quickly from the initial shock and parried Ron's attack deftly.  
'Is that so, Hermione? I thought you just told me you didn't have any plans yet.'  
Robert extended his hand. 'I'm Robert. Robert Jorkins. Pleased to meet you.' He didn't bother to get up, knowing Ron would have to take a step to reach it. It would give him a edge, so Ron merely gave him a half-hearted nod coupled with an insincere smile. 'Ronald Weasley. Pleasure.'

Hermione wasn't oblivious to this. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. Ron still didn't back down, and after a very awkward moment, Robert withdrew his hand lazily, a mock look of surprise on his face as he glanced at Hermione. _This guy is good_, Ron thought, _He's got me down two-nil already._  
Hermione bristled, her eyes narrowing even further.  
'I don't recall having agreed to lunch with you, Ron,' she said, her anger obviously flaring, but poorly disguised in her reply, 'When exactly have I agreed to this?'  
'You haven't,' Ron replied coolly, knowing when to be careful around her, 'I thought I'd plan a bit of a surprise for you.'  
Hermione glanced down to the picnic basket. She seemed genuinely surprised by it.  
'I don't want to cause a problem,' Robert said as he got up from his chair. Ron was mildly surprised at such a quick defeat. He had expected more. _What tactic is he working now?_  
'Go and have your mid-winter picnic, Hermione,' he said, 'I'll just go and eat a sandwich from the bakery by myself.'  
_Ahh,_ Ron thought, _He's playing the angle of the hurt and lonesome loser. Smart guy, this Robert._  
'You most definitely will not,' Hermione replied, unaware of the barely suppressed look of victory that flashed across his face, 'I'm sorry Ron, but I've already agreed to having lunch with Robert. I really appreciate the gesture, but you were too late.'  
'Well,' Ron said, a surge of anger at her naiveté rising to the surface, 'I guess I'll let you know any surprises I've got planned three weeks in advance. In writing.'  
Hermione placed her hands on her hips. _Not a good sign._ He decided not to face her storm of indignation, and turned away, his long strides taking him across the department quickly. When he reached the lobby, he bumped his knee on one of the upturned tables. 'Damnit!' His anger now at a boiling point, Ron aimed a kick at it. The effect was minimal; it hardly moved at all, and having endured years of abuse by magical beasts, the table hardly even seemed to notice Ron's spiteful kick at it. The people in the lobby did respond to it however. Several of them gave him disapproving looks, a which holding a grindylow in a tank turned her head away, and the two leprechauns gave him a thumbs up. Muttering under his breath, Ron left the department, passing by Marie, who looked at him with raised eyebrows.

He apparated back home a few minutes later. Chucking the basket into a corner, he glumly paced around what was going to be his living room. He had spent his last bit of money on the strawberries, which had cost him a fair price in this season. Ron had spent quite a bit of money on repairs for his farm, and though he had been able to manage for a while now, even the money from Gringotts was coming to an end. He still had a few pence of muggle money left, but hardly enough to make it through this week. He would be damned if he borrowed money from Harry or his family, and finding a job had proven a bit harder than he had anticipated. The auror academy wasn't accepting any new students until September, he didn't want to go back to George's shop unless he absolutely had to, and all the other job openings required him to have more experience. He had been out of the magical community for so long that most of the interviews had ended the moment he mentioned it.

Seeking solace in his guitar, he strummed it a little while, until it too was discarded. _How could Hermione not see through that slimy git's poker face?_ he thought, his fist pounding against the table. Something else was gnawing at him though. Ron had not had an outburst like this in quite some time. He had thought he'd left it behind him. It always felt so childish, and he had been relieved that his temper no longer got in his way. Now, it back again, in full force. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, and everything he touched seemed to warrant being thrown, getting beaten, or otherwise being abused.

Ron decided to make use of the fireplace. It was cold in the farm, and he could use the distraction. He noticed that he only had a single log of wood left. _Great. Just great._  
Getting out of the house, he walked to the back where a large pile of un-chopped wood lay. Getting the axe from broom shed, he placed a block of wood on a tree stump and swung the axe down. The blade lodged itself right down the middle of the log. Ron tried to pull it out, but it wouldn't budge. Lifting the axe with the log on it overhead, the rammed it down hard, splitting it in two pieces. It felt good to work like this.

An hour later, Ron had reduced more than thirty pieces of wood down to logs small enough for the fireplace. His anger had subsided, and though his arms ached with the effort, he was quite happy with himself. Chopping the logs had cleared his head, and he had managed to think about what he needed to do. Taking a few logs inside, he started a fire. When it was burning merrily, he took out a paper and pen and jotted down a small note.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I understand your anger with me. Please allow me to apologize for my reaction earlier today. Could I come over this evening or tomorrow to show you I mean it?_

_Love, Ron._

He quickly folded up the letter and sent it out with Pig. On a whim, he had added a strawberry to it, placing it in a small plastic container.

Hermione's reaction came in two hours later. She had returned Pig with a small note written in her neat, loopy handwriting.

_Dear Ron,_

_I feel a bit silly. You obviously made quite an effort to surprise me. I'll be home around six. We could eat the sandwiches then (assuming you haven't plundered them yet)._

_Love, Hermione._

Ron looked over at the picnic basket. He had taken out a single sandwich, because his attack at the firewood had left him hungry. He had saved the rest, knowing he didn't have enough money for dinner tonight. He had also eaten a third of the strawberries.

Ron rang the doorbell at Hermione's place quarter past six. She came down to open quickly. Ron noticed she had foregone all manner of protection, and made a mental note not to forget telling her to be more careful.  
'Ron!' she said, genuinely pleased to see him, 'What a surprise!'  
Her mock look of surprise was endearing, but didn't really lift his spirit; it merely reminded him of his outburst during lunch. She ushered him up, taking his coat and asking him what he'd like to drink. Ron turned to tell her he had brought a bottle of wine when he butted his head against the book plank again. Hermione seemed more than a little amused.  
'Damn,' he said, rubbing his head and checking to see if had had damaged the wood, 'this place is a death-trap, Hermione.'  
'For you, you mean.' she said, her face cracking into a smile, 'I've never heard anyone else complain.'

Hermione's tiny apartment was still overflowing with books, but she had removed the coffee table, piling the books that had been on it onto the sofa. There were cushions on the floor. Ron felt her doing a bit of magic behind him, and when he turned to look, she handed him a towel with some ice in it.  
'I thought we might have dinner on the floor,' she said, as she examined what was sure to be a bruise on his forehead, 'It felt wrong to use the sofa or the dinner table.'  
Ron pressed the ice on his forehead. He smiled, even though the lump on his head hurt like hell.  
'I wanted to take you up to the coast. I remember a bit of the coast that we visited during our hunt for the horcruxes. You seemed happy then.'  
'You mean that bit near Cardiff?'  
'Yeah,' he said, as he placed the basket in the middle of the room and sat down amongst the cushions, 'I remember you sitting in the sand, breathing in the sea air and looking out at the horizon. It wasn't even all that sunny then, but you had this blissful smile on your face.'  
Hermione seemed lost in memories for a little while, and he took out the bottle of wine and the remains of the sandwiches. He unwrapped all of them, and told her what was what. The strawberries had been meant to be a surprise desert for lunch, but since she knew they were in there, he thought it best to unwrap those as well. Hermione quickly snatched on of them.  
'Strawberries in winter?' she asked.  
'Flown in from South America,' he replied, taking one himself. It was very sweet. 'It's summer there now, you know.'

They ate in relative calm, neither willing to spoil the good atmosphere. When Ron finished his last sandwich, he refilled Hermione's cup with wine.  
'Enough!' she said, half laughing, 'I've already had two glasses, and you pour it like it's water!'  
Ron poured himself another glass too, feeling a light buzz that came from alcohol. He took a big gulp, hoping it would steady his nerves.  
''Mione,' he said, 'I'm sorry I was such a git today.'  
For a moment, she didn't reply. She took a small sip from her wine and set the glass down thoughtfully.  
'It's been a long time since we've had an argument like that,' she said, 'I must confess that I felt strangely melancholic afterwards.'  
'I shouldn't have overreacted,' Ron admitted, 'Even though that prat was clearly trying to get into your knickers-'  
'Ron!' Hermione said indignantly. She gave him a stern look.  
'He was, Hermione,' Ron proceeded, 'And for some reason, that still sets my teeth on edge. I know I can get a bit.. overprotective of you, and if I offended you by it, I apologize. I didn't mean to.'  
'Couldn't Robert have just asked me to lunch, without an ulterior motive?' she asked him, 'Couldn't he have just been a co-worker asking me to walk with him to the bakery? You know nothing about him, Ron. What if I told you he was married?'  
Ron shifted uncomfortably. 'That's not what it looked like from my viewpoint,' he replied calmly, 'All I saw was a guy looking at you like a dog to a bone. What if I told you he might have been married, but wasn't faithful?'  
Hermione sighed. She rubbed her forehead wearily as she always did when they had an argument she couldn't see either of them winning. 'Sure, that's possible,' she replied at last, 'But that still doesn't give you the right to behave the way you did this afternoon.'  
Ron was playing with a napkin, folding it a couple of times before replying.  
'I'm sorry,' he said, looking up into her eyes, 'I really am. I thought I had grown over that jealousy.'

The evening continued, and Ron found himself thoroughly enjoying it. Hermione and he had settled the dispute in an unspoken agreement to leave it in the past. She was telling him of her own time. He learned he had missed much. She had finished at the top of her class, regardless of his departure and what he expected would have been quite a bit of heartache. Her grades were spectacular; the best Hogwarts had awarded since decades. She told him she had spent some time in France with her parents. They had saved up for a vacation of four months, renting a small cabin near the beach.  
Her parents had taken her out to museums and galleries. She told him she had developed a great love for art, especially sculptures. It certainly explained all of the small knick-knacks and statues littered around the room. She was telling him about her trip to Rome.  
'I loved the iForum Romanum/i, with all its ruins and pillars,' she said, taking another sip from her wine, 'But none of it held a candle to the Vatican.'  
'Yeah,' Ron agreed, 'Did you do the tour?'  
'Yes,' she said, 'It was overwhelming!'  
'When were you there again?'  
'Last year,' she said, 'Around the start of May I believe. I can look it up.'  
'I guess you just missed me then,' he said, 'I was there at the end of April.'

Their eyes met for a moment, and Ron imagined what it would have been like to have met Hermione on the streets of Rome, completely unexpected. He imagined her walking around wearing a large blue hat, for some reason, and a skirt that reached up to her knees and tended to get caught in the wind. He saw her standing near the fountain in front of the Pantheon, drinking a milkshake and enjoying a bit of sun. Hermione seemed equally lost in fantasy.  
'I'm pretty sure we averted a disaster, not meeting in Rome,' she said, without further elaboration. Ron had the distinct feeling it had slipped out, and she regretted saying anything.  
'Why is that?' he asked, his curiosity awoken, 'Rome has survived revolutions, wars, and famine. Surely it could survive a reunion of two wizards.'  
Hermione bit her lip, and he was sure she was going to reply with some vagary, but she was unexpectedly obvious. 'I didn't visit Rome alone, Ron. I was there with someone else.'  
'Who,' Ron asked, 'Ginny?'  
Hermione let out a laugh. It was the most carefree and heart-felt laugh he had heard from her since returning.  
'No, you fool,' she said, clearly amused, 'For someone calling me naive, you have some pretty childish ideas about one of the most romantic cities in Europe..'  
_Oh._ Ron wasn't sure how to reply. He did feel naive now, if only because he had not imagined Hermione in a relationship with someone else. For some reason, the thought just didn't hold in his head.  
'Were you together long?' he asked.  
'About fifteen months. He's a muggle. I met him a few years ago when I was visiting my parents. He lives in their street. He works in the City as a private banker.'

A number of replies shot through his head. Some, he was forced to admit, were quite petty, like 'did you like him for his money?', others were born from jealousy, like 'he must have been overcompensating', or from insecurity: 'what did he have that I didn't?'  
In the end, he replied with something quite unexpected.  
'Was he good for you?'  
Hermione seemed rather taken with his question, while Ron felt his face burning up. What part of his brain did that come from? It must have been a feminine part...  
'He was,' she replied, reaching out and squeezing his hand, 'He was just not completely compatible with me. If we had a fight, he'd let me win, not wanting to take the trouble of rowing even when _I_ knew I was wrong. Also, I never told him I was a witch of course, and after a while, we drifted apart.'  
'Why didn't you tell him?' Ron asked, 'You know you are allowed to tell partners.'  
'I do, but something held me back. I guess in my heart, I already knew not to open up completely.'  
'Was he-', Ron tried, but the sentence blocked up in his mouth, 'Was he the- err - the err...'  
'...The only one?' Hermione completed.  
'Was he?'  
'No,' she said, and a bit of a blush appeared on her face, 'he wasn't. I dated a co-worker for a while. That never got any further than kissing.'

In his mind, Ron saw Hermione kissing somebody else. It sparked another bout of jealousy, which he suppressed. He pictured himself with Annabelle, and Mirthe, and suddenly felt quite dirty. Ron didn't tell her, pushing the thoughts down to where they came, trying to focus on something happier. He got up and stretched his legs. They had been sitting for over two hours now. His legs were sore, and stretching them felt nice. Hermione remained seated as he strolled around her apartment. He walked up to a bookshelf containing some framed pictures and a small statue. It resembled a face, but it was rather crude.  
'I hope you didn't pay too much for this piece,' he said, trying to relieve a bit of the awkwardness of the situation, 'The artist wasn't really talented.'  
'I made that myself, Ron.'  
_Merlin,_ Ron thought, _Me and my bloody mouth!_  
'I- I meant- err..' Ron stammered a little before composing himself. 'I didn't mean-'  
Hermione got up stood next to him. She put her hand on his shoulder. 'I know it wasn't an insult. None was taken.'

Ron put down the badly sculpted head and inspected the pictures. Some of them were from Hogwarts, pictures he knew he also had in his old room in the Burrow. Other pictures contained her parents, which were proudly looking at their daughter. One of them held a picture of a very young Hermione. He had never seen it before, but she looked just like the Hermione he had met on the Hogwarts express in their first year.  
Sadly, Ron also noticed a couple of pictures of Hermione with just Harry and Ginny. Harry and Ginny were always locked in an embrace, or stealing kisses, while Hermione's smile seemed a little forced. Most of the recent pictures had her smiling a real smile though.  
'I was a bit of prat, wasn't I,' he said, 'Going off like that?'  
'Yeah,' she replied coolly.  
'Oh, don't trouble yourself disagreeing,' he said, a mock grin on his face. Hermione's arm was still on his shoulder. He picked up one of the larger frames. It was a very recent picture of Hermione, dressed in a summer dress and standing near the beach. The setting sun behind her saturated the picture in red-tones. Hermione herself was barely visible except for an outline. Ron held the picture closer and saw a radiant smile on her. Her hair was shining gold and brown, whipped into life by the wind. The picture wasn't magical, probably taken by her parents. It was beautiful.  
'This is a perfect picture of you, Hermione,' Ron said, as he replaced it on the shelf, 'It proves that sometimes, muggles can make things even magic can't reproduce.'  
'It's my favourite,' Hermione said, 'My boyfriend at the time made it with a camera when we were on vacation in spain. We were together for a few weeks, and I had decided to go with him on a whim.'  
'He _does_ have talent.'  
She hit him upside the head.


End file.
